We were here, on Sunday. It was in church,' she concluded triumphantly.
'Aye, in yon steeple-house,' answered her companion moodily, and with no
show of interest. 'Very like.' His eyes wandered from the thatched roof
of the cottage to where, high above the tall old yew-trees, a slender
spire pointed heavenward. Joyce laughed at the unfamiliar word. 'That is
a church, not a steeple-house,' she corrected. 'Of course it has a
steeple, but wherefore give it such a clumsy name?' Her companion made
no reply. He seemed absorbed in a world of his own, though still leading
the pony carefully. Joyce, piqued at having her presence ignored even by
a village lad, determined to arouse him. 'Moreover, I have heard Priest
Stephens speak of you to my father,' she went on, with a little
pin-prick of emphasis on each word, though addressing her remarks
apparently to no one in particular, and with her dainty head tilted in
the air. Her companion turned to her at once. 'What said the Pr