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eye travelling down the page counted eight verses, and he gave himself up for lost. He thought of the "grinder" in a country church in the west, which could not be stopped at all, but had to be carried out and set on a tombstone to grind itself down. He thought of everything he could think of in his endeavours to drown those hideous sounds, and the pitiable distortions of Tate and Brady. His great passion was music, and as he thought now, by the fireside, of that organ and that singing, involuntarily his shoulders rose and his hands went over his ears.

All through the service, too, there were arrivals; some noisy and breathless, some quiet; but all taking their scats bravely, as though they were used to it. But the amazing part of the whole thing, was to see that most of these people took keys from their pockets to unlock the pew doors. That, at any rate, must be stopped.

And then the sermon; that great work which had been put together piece by piece, the very pith and marrow extracted from hours of work; revised, corrected, gloried over. How the gloom crept on and deepened, over those hopes and aspirations of his! Of what use was the wellconsidered sentence; or the studied rhythm of his prose? A few upturned faces there were, but from time to time they turned wearily to the clock stuck in front of the gallery; some slept, and the children played with the motes in the straggling sunbeams.

To put a climax upon this up-hill work, the old clerk waking up suddenly at a momentary depression of the preacher's voice, lost his presence of mind and gave out a loud Amen, which was followed by an irrepressible titter from the boys at the altar railings. The curate's voice fell still lower and his utterance grew quicker. All he cared for just then was to have the thing over, and get away out of that pulpit as soon as he could with decency.

And after all his miseries it was cheering to hear as he left the churchyard, concerning the fruit of so much toil,

"Schoolboyish, but pretty fair for the first; didn't you think so?" No wonder that the mortified idealist rushed away to hide himself in the small room in Laura Place, or that he felt a dreary satisfaction in reflecting that the evening service did not commence until six o'clock.

Dinner, indeed! The mutton chops might have been bits of leather and the potatoes marbles for anything he know about their flavour. His throat was parched and his heart heavy. So these people set themselves up as critics of what they had never heard! He was certain they could not have listened to a word of it. And if they had-why, how could he expect these suburbans, these country dullards to appreciate a man who had taken a "double first ?" Schoolboyish! Were they going to patronize him? These people whom he had come to teach? Would they kindly give him a few lessons in sermon writing?

FALL OF THE

GRINDER."

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Or in church discipline perhaps they would instruct him? They seemed to have very fine ideas on the subject themselves.

Then there was the evening service, which presented little variety, except that, as it was growing dusk, there was on the altar a moderator lamp, with a newspaper spread under it, a split chimney, and no globe.

But now, as he thought it all over in the quiet evening, the mercury of his temperament rose as high as it had before fallen low. Why, everything could be altered of course. He had taught himself to expect difficulties, and here he was failing at the very first onset. He had liked the idea of St. Peter's, because they told him the work was hard, and as the vicar was in Madeira, he would have it all to himself. Certainly he had not expected anything so bad as this, but it was mean and cowardly to be cast down about it so readily.

He would have that organ down; there must be a trained choir, and

So many alterations crowded upon him that he decided it would be better to write to the vicar for carte blanche to effect any improvements he might find possible. The worse everything was now, the more credit it would be to him to bring order into the parish. And in a month's time there might be a change so great that people would hardly know the little church to be the same.

CHAPTER II.-DISCORD FROM THE HARMONIUM.

"When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall;
Down comes baby, cradle and all!"

PERIODICALLY, and with a dismal mirthfulness the refrain came up to the curate's ears from the kitchen, and although it was varied with other nursery beauties, there was something about those two lines on which the wheels of his fancy seemed to bite; and the man who had taken a "double first" surprised himself in the very act of repeating them aloud.

He might have seen in them a grim applicability to his own position, for the stipulated month had passed stormily; and when he thought of all the anomalies which had so disgusted him at first, and the changes he had effected, it seemed almost as if the whole edifice was coming down about his ears. He had gone about the reformation with a high hand. The grinding organ creaked and fell, and the churchwardens looked on in silent dismay, but agreed to let him alone. Indeed, he brooked no interference, and vouchsafed no explanation of his movements. As to respecting people's prejudices, or making allowance for old associations, he saw no necessity for that; it was a species of temporizing. If people's old associations were of such a motley character, the sooner they gave place to new ones the better.

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Two things were clear to the wardens, however. If he chose to

abolish the grinder, he must find a substitute; and if the substitute were to be played with fingers, he, the curate, must find fingers to play it with.

For the new organ itself it seemed to Ralph that he had nothing to do but to apply to his parishioners, which he did, not at all as though he were asking for something which might be refused, but as if he were reminding them of a privilege which they would gratefully exercise.

His way of speaking was not conciliatory. Out of that cloud-land of his wherein men and women were not a mixed assemblage of different opinions, but a corporate body holding one and the same, and that one his own, he spoke to his parishioners, and the words fell upon them like words spoken through water. What was under the bubble and froth of this egregious arrogance? Was there anything or nothing? Did he mean to assert that they were all bound to succumb to his lightest word? Were white-haired men, who looked back through a long experience at the good old time which never is, but always was, and shook their heads over the degeneracy of the present-were these to follow meekly a lad like this as an infallible oracle?

The reverend Ralph did not understand his parishioners-did not attempt to understand them. If they did not think exactly as he did, then what they thought was unimportant, except that it must be put down as error. Just at present he had no space to attend to them or their private opinions. He wanted-a great many things; but first of all, a new musical instrument of some sort. He even had recourse to that importunate gadfly of clerical life, the subscription list; and to his utter astonishment and disgust, he was still put off. People did not like doing things in such a hurry. The old organ had done its work for many years, and surely there was no need for such hot haste in sweeping it away: they wanted time to think about it.

Time to think about it!

The curate called to mind the whistling and sneezing of the bellows, the spasmodic groans which heralded every fresh start of the unwieldy hymn-tune, with the jerking interlude perforce repeated between each verse, the listless yawns of the congregation, and twists and trills of the singers. Last, but not least perhaps, his own misery under the infliction.

Time to think about it indeed! He tore up the obnoxious subscription list, and scattered it to the four winds; he walked up into the town, selected the very best harmonium procurable there for money, and engaged the services of a professional player and choir-master.

After this specimen of his untiring energy, it was humiliating to find that he had made a mistake. Not in his choice of an instrument; his musical ear was too good for that; but in his utter disregard of the feelings and wishes of his parishioners. Of course they had meant to

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subscribe for an organ; they had given him to understand that; no one had the least idea of refusing to give.

The reverend Ralph came down out of his cloud to listen, with a growing haughtiness and impatience that threatened to gain the mastery over his usual self-control.

"It is quite true, Mr. Smith. I believe I made known my wish at every house in the parish before taking this step."

"And no one in the parish meant to disregard your application." "I am accustomed to believe what people say, not to unriddle a possible 'yes' from a wordy 'no.' I met with what I interpreted as refusals in every direction. I dislike temporizing. If a thing is necessary, it should be done at once. I therefore purchased out of my private purse the best harmonium I could get. I am aware of its inferiority to a good organ, but at present I did not feel justified in

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"If you had given us a little time," remonstrated Mr. Smith. To him it was no palliation of the curate's hot-headed rashness that the harmonium was paid for. He took it, indeed, rather as an insult to the parish generally, and to himself as the richest man in the parish, and a churchwarden. "If you had given us a little time, we--I speak from personal knowledge-should all have been glad to respond to your call upon us. As it is

"Yes?" said Ralph, interrogatively.

"As it is, I fear there will be serious objections to having a largesalaried organist thrust upon

"I shall be able to defray that expense also," interrupted Ralph, haughtily; "all that I can do, I will do. I have been accustomed to see the Church services conducted with reverence and order, and since the parish will not help me, since the people of St. Peter's have nothing spare for the Church, I can only be thankful that the means have been given me to make such improvements as I may judge necessary."

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Mr. Smith went away angry and offended. The ministry of the new curate amongst them seemed to be a sort of "progression by antagonism." What it would end in remained to be seen, but certainly every word he uttered drove the wedge in farther, and widened the chasm which he had chosen to open between himself and his parishioners.

As for Ralph, in a great access of bitterness, he threw open the little window looking upon the court the Devil's Court, as it was called— and leaned out, watching the big piston at its work, and hearing the snatches of nursery rhymes from the kitchen. If people chose to say one thing when they meant another, was he to be blamed for believing them? Besides, he really could not see the reason for taking offence at what he had done. He was bound to act as he thought right, and if that did not please, it was no fault of his. He was not going to give way an inch to anybody's prejudices. He must maintain his authority,

that is, the authority of his office, and no one had any right to cavil at his proceedings. He would set the matter on one side entirely, and trouble himself no further about it. And forthwith he returned to the labours of study and composition, which the churchwarden had disturbed.

Alas! his mind was crammed with the learning drawn from books; but the thoughts of others had not as yet helped him to a right understanding of his own; and of the hearts of men and women he knew comparatively nothing. Neither had he a particle of that valuable attribute, tact.

By and by an interruption came to his studies. A note was brought to him; it was from the rich Mr. Smith.

The churchwarden had probably repented of his anger. The meagre aspect of the curate's room recurred to him again and again; the man who, not wanting means, could be content to live in that style after Repton Chase, was probably eccentric, and therefore to be pitied-for Mr. Smith knew and was well known at Repton. He had known Ralph as a little boy, and had held him on his knee-a fact of which it would have been daring to remind the haughty curate. It was a fact, nevertheless, which made the curate's authoritative manner and self-assertion harder to bear. In spite of himself, however, the churchwarden could not help a feeling of respect for the readiness with which a young fellow like Ralph took upon his own shoulders an expense which of right be

longed to the parish.

Mr. Smith was about to give a dinner party, to which, with an intimation that certain members of the Archæological Society would be present, he bade Ralph-not with a formal invitation, but with the more cordial note written in the first person, and conveying in it a delicate forgetfulness of the recent misunderstanding.

Mr. Smith's parties were notoriously the best in the parish, and besides, Ralph, having once looked with interest over his collection of Roman pottery, bone pins, models of uncovered hypocausts, etc., felt that a double compliment was contained in this invite to meet the archæologists. It was, moreover, an opportunity whereby the curate might have regained at least a step or two of his lost ground.

"A bonne-bouche!" exclaimed Ralph, mentally, "or a sop for Cerberus." And then he put down the note with a gesture of vexation. What was he to do? If he refused this, Mr. Smith would be still more offended, and accept it he could not.

He never meant to go to parties; he had no time for it. He looked at the heavy volumes with which his table was loaded, and at those, their ponderous brothers, piled up in the corners of the room. If all his life were spent in study, he could be but a babe in learning at last. He did not confine himself to theology; there were those collateral studies to be attended to which, in his opinion, were as necessary to the

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