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 the sound of sticks and curses not far off, he plunged forward. But Mrs. Cassidy had not hesitated at all. Leaving her harvesting outfit, and even her own proper hat and jacket to be trampled or horned, she made a leap to grasp the top of the whitewashed partition. Then her physical culture proved its value. She dragged herself to comparative safety. But the top of a wooden partition is not comfortable, nor was the attitude she was forced to adopt one in which an archdeacon's wife ought to be seen even by a bullock. She cast one regretful look towards the clothes, which already were under the feet of the cattle, and dropped on the iron place outside the engine-room door. Fortunately the engineer was engaged with an oil-can somewhere in the bowels of his machinery.

Nothing at this stage of her adventure prevented Mrs. Crossley's immediate return to the rectory, except the recollection of the letter she had posted to the Archdeacon. It was written, she remembered, in very noble language. She had expatiated upon lofty aims; upon the glory of the strenuous life; upon the value of fundamental sociology. She had not spared hints of her contempt for the easy and monotonous existence led by Church dignitaries. In the evening the letter would be delivered, and there was no possibility of intercepting it. No self-respecting woman could face the situation. The Archdeacon was not a man with a keen sense of humour, but even he Mrs. Crossley quivered