Chapter XVII

Sunday, the 30th of August. But oh, what a different
Sunday from that of a week ago! The
morning congregation in Witanbury Cathedral was
larger than it had ever been before, and over every
man and woman there hung an awful pall of suspense,
and yes, of fear, as to what the morrow might
bring forth.

Both the post and the Sunday papers were late.
They had not even been delivered by church time, and
that added greatly, with some of those who were gathered
there, to the general feeling of anxiety and unease.

In the sermon that he preached that day the Dean
struck a stern and feeling note. He told his hearers
that now not only their beloved country, but each man
and woman before him, must have a heart for every
fate. He, the speaker, would not claim any special
knowledge, but they all knew that the situation was
very serious. Even so, it would be a great mistake, and
a great wrong, to give way to despair. He would go
further, and say that even despondency was out of
place.

Only a day or two ago he had been offered, and he
had purchased, the diary of a citizen of Witanbury
written over a hundred years ago, and from a feeling
of natural curiosity he had looked up the entries in
the August of that year. Moved and interested indeed
had he been to find that Witanbury just then had been

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v?