always adaptable. Miss Airedale was an enchanting companion. In
the privacy of his bedroom he measured himself for a pair of
riding breeches and wrote to his tailor in town to have them made
as soon as possible. He served the little chapel assiduously,
though he felt it better to conceal from the Airedales the fact
that he went there every day. He suspected they would think him
slightly mad if they knew, so he used to pretend that he had
business in town. Then he would slip away to the balsam-scented
hilltop and be perfectly happy sweeping the chapel floor, dusting
the pews, polishing the brasswork, rearranging the hymnals in the
racks. He arranged with the milkman to leave a bottle of milk and
some cinnamon buns at the chapel gate every morning, so he had a
cheerful and stealthy little lunch in the vestry-room, though
always a trifle nervous lest some of his parishioners should
discover him.

He practiced reading the lessons aloud at the brass lectern, and
discovered how easy is dramatic elocution when you are alone. He
wished it were possible to hold a service daily. For the first
time he was able to sing hymns as loud as he liked. Miss Airedale
played the organ with emphatic fervour, and the congregation,
after a little hesitation, enjoyed the lusty sincerity of a hymn
well trolled. Some of his flock, who had previously relished
taking part in the general routine of the service, were
disappointed by his zeal, for Gissing insisted on doing
everything himself. He rang the bell, ushered the congregation to
their seats, read the service, recited the Quadrupeds' Creed, led
the choir, gave out as many announcements as he could devise,
took up the collection, and at the close skipped out through the
vestry and was ready and beaming in the porch before the nimblest