Minnie’s Bishop and Other Stories/Mrs. Williams

XXII.—MRS. WILLIAMSTHE day was wet, even for the west of Ireland, unusually wet. The church offered a refuge and I went into it, leaving the muddy streets, the lowing cattle, and the heavy smell of a fair day in a little Connaught town. I found myself the spectator of rites not meant for me. Between twenty and thirty clergymen, old and young, were gathered in the church and listened to an exhortation delivered by an elderly dignitary, who spoke, not from the regular pulpit, but from the lectern. I felt myself an intruder, an eavesdropper, a spy upon the private devotions of worthy men. But the quietness and the soothing grey of the church attracted me. I was by no means inclined to go out again. I settled myself in a remote seat and compromised matters with my sense of honour by determining not to listen to one word Which was said. Unfortunately there was nothing in the architecture of the church to absorb my attention. From a stained glass window close beside me I turned away my eyes lest they should behold vanity or worse. The artist had worked from the photograph of a deceased fat man, and had clad his person in garments of shape and colouring such as must have put his ghost to

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