"Not at all-not at all! It amused me, rather, to be reminded that, as Visitor, I am a person in St. Hospital, and still reckoned an important one. Made me feel like an image in a niche subjected to a sudden dusting. Who is this-er, what-d'ye-callhim? Warboise? An eccentric?"

"I will not say that. Old and opinionated, rather; a militant Protestant

"Ah, we know the sort. Shall we glance over his screed? You permit me?"

"I was about to suggest your doing so. To tell the truth, I am curious to be acquainted with the charge against me.”

The Bishop smiled, drew forth the paper from his pocket, adjusted his gold-rimmed eyeglasses and read

66

To the Right Rev. Father in God, Walter, Lord Bishop of Merchester.

"My Lord,-We the undersigned, being Brethren on the Blanchminster and Beauchamp foundations of St. Hospital's College of Noble Poverty by Merton, respectfully desire your lordship's attention to certain abuses which of late have crept into this Society; and particularly in the observances of religion.

“We contend (1) that, whereas our Reformed and Protestant Church, in Number XXII of her Articles of Religion declares the Romish doctrine of purgatory

inter alia to be a fond thing vainly invented, etc., and repugnant to the Word of God, yet prayers for the dead have twice been publicly offered in our Chapel and the practice defended, nay recommended, from its pulpit.

66

(2) That, whereas in Number XXVIII of the same Articles the Sacrament of the Lord's Supper is defined in intention, and the definition expressly cleared to repudiate several practices not consonant with it, certain of these have been observed of late in our Chapel, to the scandal of the Church, and to the pain and uneasiness of souls that were used to draw pure refreshment from these Sacraments—"

The Bishop paused.

"I say, Master, this Brother Warboise of yours can write passable English."

"Warboise?

his life."

Warboise never wrote that never in

Master Blanchminster passed a hand over his forehead.

"It's Copas's handwriting!" announced Mr. Colt, who had drawn close and, unpermitted, was staring over the Bishop's shoulder at the manuscript.

The Bishop turned half about in his chair, slightly affronted by this offence against good breeding; but Mr. Colt was too far excited to guess the rebuke. "Turn over the page, my lord."

As the Bishop turned it, on the impulse of surprise, Mr. Colt pointed a forefinger.

"There it is-half-way down the signatures! 'J. Copas,' written in the same hand!"

CHAPTER VIII

A PEACE-OFFERING

"FEE, faw, fum! bubble and squeak!

Blessedest Thursday 's the fat of the week!""

quoted Brother Copas from one of his favourite poems. This was in the kitchen, three days later, and he made one of the crowd edging, pushing, pressing, each with plate in hand, around the great table where the joints stood ready to be carved and distributed. For save on Gaudy-days and great festivals of the Church, the Brethren dine in their own chambers, not in Hall; and on three days of the week must fend for themselves on food purchased out of their small allowances. But on Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays they fetch it from the kitchen, taking their turns to choose the best cuts. And this was Thursday and, as it happened, Brother Copas stood first on the rota.

The rota hung on the kitchen wall in a frame of oak canopied with faded velvet-an ingenious and puzzling contrivance, somewhat like the calendar prefixed to the Book of Common Prayer, with the

names of the Brethren inserted on movable cards worn greasy with handling. In system nothing could be fairer; but in practice, human nature being what it is, and the crowd without discipline, the press and clamour about the table made choosing difficult for the weaker ones.

"Brother Copas to choose! Brother Clerihew to divide!"

"Aye," sang out Brother Copas cheerfully, "and I'll take my time about it. Make room, Woolcombe, if you please, and take your elbow out of my ribsdon't I know the old trick? And stop pushing— you behind there! . . . 'Rats in a hamper, swine in a sty, wasps in a bottle'-Mrs. Royle, ma'am, I am very sorry for your husband's rheumatism, but it does not become a lady to show this indecent haste."

"Indecent?" shrilled Mrs. Royle. "Indecent, you call me?—you that pretend to ha' been a gentleman! I reckon, if indecency 's the matter in these times, I could talk to one or two of ye about it."

"Not a doubt of that, ma'am. . . . But really you ladies have no right here: it's clean against the rules, and the hubbub you provoke is a scandal."

"Do you mean to insinuate, sir"

"With your leave, ma'am, I mean to insinuate myself between your skirts and the table from which at this moment you debar me. Ah!" exclaimed