ONCE upon a time there lived in a cathedral city, almost in the shadow of the minster, a middle-aged freethinker, who was exceedingly angry with God for not existing. Nor was he conciliated by those who pointed out (reasonably enough) that it was not His fault. This, in the view of the freethinker, merely increased the offence. “He should have thought of all that before,” he would say grimly.

In the same town, but actually in the minster itself, yes and in a hole in the pulpit, lived a mouse, who, for her part, did not agree with the freethinker. She was, I fear, not as independent a mind as she should have been, and permitted herself to be influenced by the singularly sweet voice of the principal officiating priest. Him she (foolishly) identified with the creator of the ample mansion of her choice, and indeed let it be understood among her acquaintance that she was peculiarly acceptable in his sight. “For,” she said, “every day he comes dressed all in white when the sun strikes through the windows, throwing a coloured shadow on his robe, and scatters precious bread for me on a stainless cloth. And in further proof,” she would say to scoffers, “there is a second and lesser angel, who salutes him, calling him by his name of ‘Our Father in Heaven.’” Several mice who doubted her story came at her invitation to scoff and remained to eat the sacred crumbs.

Now it was exactly this matter of the bread which above all other Christian uses most inflamed the freethinker. When he was not railing at the superstition of those who believed that a celestial body could be concealed in milled and baked ears of corn, he was complaining against the waste of good bread. He would calculate a statistic of the annual diversion of bread to this purpose. “Think of the poor!” he would snort, but it is not certain that he thought of them himself.

The freethinker’s habit in the spring months of the year was to take an early turn along the quiet and flowery streets. The clean and morning beauty was for him an anodyne, and when he was certain of escaping observation he would on occasion slip through a small postern gate in the cathedral and brood happily upon the base uses to which a structure so noble had been addressed. During one of these intrusions he observed that the cloth was laid on the high altar and that the priest was preparing the communion service. As no worshippers appeared, the freethinker drew near to the altar in order to satisfy himself by personal witness of the futility of the celebration.

The priest did not observe (or did not appear to observe) his visitor, but completed the ritual as though in the company of a great host. “Buffoonery!” muttered the freethinker, struggling angrily against the radiant charm of the sun falling through old glass. “Bad enough,” he continued in an audible whisper, “to serve bread to those who do not need it, but to serve it to nobody at all——!!”

“Are you sure,” said the priest, who had finished the service, “that it is for nobody?” and he pointed smiling to the tiny grey communicants nibbling the crumbs. “Do I understand,” inquired the freethinker icily, “that you perform this service for the sake of the mice?” “Why not,” said the priest; “as you do to the least of these——” “This,” said the freethinker, quite properly indignant, “is what I should call blasphemy.” “And of that,” said the priest, turning to go to the vestry, “you should be no mean judge.”

“Sir,” said the verger to the priest later in the day, “them mice have been about again. I see two of them at the sacred bread. I wish you would let me set traps.” “Why,” said the priest, “I have already set one.” “And did you catch anything?” asked the verger. “I think so,” said the priest.