"Never mind," answered Parpon.
At a word from Parpon the shrivelled old sexton cleared a way through the aisle, making a stir, through which the silver bell at Pomfrette's knee tinkled, in answer, as it were, to the tinkling of the acolyte's bell in the sanctuary.

People turned at the sound, women stopped telling their beads, some of the choir forgot their chanting.

A strange feeling passed through the church, and reached and startled the Cure as he recited the Mass.

He turned round and saw Parpon laying Pomfrette down at the chancel steps.

His voice shook a little as he intoned the ritual, and as he raised the sacred elements tears rolled down his cheeks.
From a distant corner of the gallery a deeply veiled woman also looked down at Pomfrette, and her hand trembled on the desk before her.
At last the Cure came forward to the chancel steps.