Bribble’s rendering of the service —he had the sort of voice that brings out things—and was still teeming with ideas about it when finally a wild outburst from the organ made it clear that, whatever snivelling there might be down in the chancel, that excellent wind instrument was, in its Mendelssohnian way, as glad as ever it could be. It was the gratification of an immense necessity. “Thank God,” he exclaimed. The door was locked; but, with the bars of iron, it was speedily burst open. And the fact that it was dressed in riding gear had fooled her into thinking it was her own image.
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