On the Sunday morning following this important conversation, the Banneret family made their appearance in the roomy enclosure which had been for many generations consecrated to the use of the Lord of the Manor, his family, and apparently as many of his relations and dependants as he chose thus to honour. The church was fairly well filled, as it happened, much to the gratification of the Vicar, who was not displeased to note the presence of neighbouring magnates, with their wives, who from time to time directed an intermittent gaze towards the new occupants of the Hall pew. Arnold Banneret with his wife and daughters made a good appearance therein. Indeed it had been for some years unoccupied, during the absence of the family abroad: such being the traditional custom. Mrs. Banneret and her daughters were well but quietly dressed—her wish to that effect having been gently but firmly expressed. ‘We have recently come from town,’ she said; ‘it is reported, no doubt, that we are very rich. In this quiet place nothing could be more vulgar than any display of fashion bordering upon finery.’ This settled the matter. The dresses were studiously plain; so much so, that the rustics of the congregation were secretly disappointed in not seeing unusual splendour, doubting in consequence whether the new-comers were so rich as they had been led to believe.
As the service proceeded, the thought came into the mind of this Australian squire of the many differing localities and positions in which he, with his wife and children, had worshipped before they came to this lordly abode. Not infrequently had he been the officiating lay minister, reading the Burial Service over the dead miner, victim of some sudden landslip or premature explosion; reciting the words of the litany, now sounding in his ears, in a half-finished wooden building, roofed with eucalyptus bark or corrugated iron; driving miles through snow for the purpose, or in mid-summer crossing the brick-red plain, amid dust and simoom-like blasts. Through all these incongruous scenes, and from these and a hundred other various parts played by him in the great drama of life, he had emerged safe and unharmed. Not only unharmed, but placed in this position of honour and dignity—by no merit of his own, but by the operation of, apparently, the primary forces of Nature. Riches, too, had been added for the further advantage and enjoyment of those whom he loved more—yes, far more, than his own life. Ought he not then, out of the fulness of a heart welling over with gratitude, to echo the solemn prayer of the concluding litany?