new that if ever they wanted religion, they had only to knock and ask for it.
But one fine morning, an hour before noon, the whole parish sprang to its feet at the sound of a horn. The blast was twice repeated, and came from the little cottage across the sands.
"'Tis the blessed saint's cow-horn!" they told each other. "Sure the dear man must be in the article of death!" And they hurried off to the cottage, man, woman, and child: for 'twas thirty years at least since the horn had last been sounded.
They pushed open the door, and there sat St. Piran in his arm-chair, looking good for another twenty years, but considerably flustered. His cheeks were red, and his fingers clutched the cow-horn nervously.
"Andrew Penhaligon," said he to the first man that entered, "go you out and ring the church bell."
Off ran Andrew Penhaligon. "But, blessed father of us," said one or two, "we're all _here_! There's no call to ring the church bell, seem' you're neither dead nor afire, blessamercy!"
"Oh, if you're all here, that alters the case; for 'tis only a proclamation I have to give
