It had been one of those singing days when spring is turning into summer, and lifting every muddy lane and ragged hedge into radiance. All day the sun had shone with approval upon Bishop’s Pecheford; all day the village, as quiet and uneventful as its name, had basked in warmth and virtue.
The members of the Parochial Church Council straggled into the dingy schoolroom; as they crossed the threshold they were glorified in the red searchlight of sunset that slanted through the west window and lit up each newcomer with an apparent gaiety better suited to a funeral or a whist drive than to a business meeting.
We had been summoned for seven o’clock. The Rector, who had been looking impatiently at his watch, called upon us at ten minutes past the hour to begin the meeting with prayer. We stood up in silence. The Rector does not fire off collects at us on these occasions; he suggests to us what we shall pray about and leaves us to it. The room was very still.
