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Surely that was not wrong. No
one could say....
Little shivers ran continually about her body, and her hands, clenched
tightly, were damp within her gloves.
The Precentor gave out the words of the Anthem, "Little children, love one
another."
Every one rose--save Lady St. Leath, who settled herself magnificently in
her seat and looked about her as though she challenged anybody to tell her
that she was wrong to do so.
Yes, that was all Amy Brandon wanted. Who could say that she was wrong to
want it? The little battle was concluded.
Old Canon Foster was preaching to-day. Always at the conclusion of the
Anthem certain ruffians, visitors, tourists, clattered out. No sermon for
them. They did not matter very greatly because they were far away at the
back of the nave, and nobody need look at them; but on Foster's preaching
days certain of the aristocracy also retired, and this was disconcerting
because their seats were prominent ones and their dresses were of silk.
Often Lady St. Leath was one of these, but to-day she was sunk into a kind
of stupor and did not move.


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