A CATASTROPHE outline of this charming specimen of ancient architecture, a man in dark tweeds approached us, who said he was an amateur photographer, and would give us a photograph of the building if we liked. We thanked him very much for his kindness, but he did not go home to fetch the said photograph, as we expected, but stood watching us finish our sketch. Then we made some random remark to the effect that it was a very fine church,—we had nearly said "a very fine day," from sheer custom, but checked ourselves half-way. In conversation we always endeavour to keep the weather back as a last resource; but old crusted habits are difficult to conquer. "Yes," he agreed, "it's a fine church, but it was finer before the tower was knocked down." For a moment we imagined that we were talking with an escaped lunatic; we had never heard of a church tower being "knocked down" before! "What," queried we, "did a traction engine run into it, or how did it get knocked down?" The answer was reassuring; we were not talking to a lunatic! "It was knocked down by lightning when I was fifteen years younger than I am now. It happened one Sunday morning during service. The storm came on very suddenly, and I was sheltering in a doorway over yonder. Suddenly there was a blinding flash and a great crack of thunder, and I saw the tower come crashing down with a tremendous roar, followed by a cloud of dust or steam, I'm not sure which. Then the people rushed out of church pell-mell—men without their hats, all in the soaking rain, for it did pour
