new way of describing the Coombe silence. His tingling phrase
was a joy for ever.

He took me to the church--one of the tiniest churches in the
country, just the right size for a church in a tiny village
and assured me that he had never once locked the door in his
fifty years--day and night it was open to any one to enter.
It was a refuge and shelter from the storm and the Tempest,
and many a poor homeless wretch had found a dry place to sleep
in that church during the last half a century. This man's
feeling of pity and tenderness for the very poor, even the
outcast and tramp, was a passion. But how strange all this
would sound in the ears of many country clergymen! How many
have told me when I have gone to the parsonage to "borrow the
key" that it had been found necessary to keep the church door
locked, to prevent damage, thefts, etc. "Have you never had
anything stolen?" I asked him. Yes, once, a great many years
ago, the church plate had been taken away in the night. But
it was recovered: the thief had taken it to the top of the
hill and thrown it into the dewpond there, no doubt intending
to take it out and dispose of it at some more convenient time.
But it was found, and had ever since then been kept safe at
the vicarage. Nothing of value to tempt a man to steal was
kept in the church. He had never locked it, but once in his
fifty years it had been locked against him by the
churchwardens. This happened in the days of the Joseph Arch
agitation, when the agricultural labourer's condition was
being hotly discussed throughout the country. The vicar's
heart was stirred, for he knew better than most how hard these
conditions were at Coombe and in the surrounding parishes. He