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390 "I liked the little man with his tongue hanging out the best," said one.

"Oh, Mabel, you've no sense of humour! That Schuabe creature was the funniest of all!"

A Sunday evensong. The grim old Lancashire church of Waiktown is full of people. The galleries are crowded, every seat in the aisles below is packed.

This night, Easter night, the church looks less forbidding. The harsh note is gone, something of the supreme joy of Holy Easter has driven it away.

Old Mr. Byars sits in his stall. He is tired by the long, happy day, and as the choir sings the last verse of the hymn before the sermon he sits down.

The delicate, intellectual face is a little pinched and transparent. Age has come, but it is to this faithful priest but as the rare bloom upon the fruits of peace and quiet.

How the thunderous voices peal in exultation!

Alleluia!

Christ is risen! The old man turned his head. His eyes were full of happy tears. He saw his daughter, a young and noble matron now, standing in a pew close to the chancel steps. He heard her pure voice, full of triumph. Christ is risen!

From his oak chair behind the altar rails Dean Gortre came down towards the pulpit.

Young still—strangely young for the dignity which they had pressed on him for two years before he would accept it—Basil ascended the steps.

Christ is risen!

The organ crashed; there was silence.