The old Raxton church at the end
of this peninsula had, not many years since, to be deserted for a new
one, lest it should some day carry its congregation with it when it
slides, as it soon will slide, into the sea. But as none had dared to
pull down the old church, a custodian had to be found who for a
pittance would take charge of it and of the important monuments it
contains. Such a custodian was found in Wynne, who lived in the
cottage already described on the Wilderness Road. Along this road
(which passed both the new church and the old) I was frequently
journeying, and Wynne's tall burly form and ruddy face were, even
before I knew Winnie, a certain comfort to me.
He was said to be the last remnant of an old family that once owned
much land in the neighbourhood, and he was still the recipient of a
small pension. My father used to say that Wynne's family was even
exceptionally good, that it laid claim to being descended from a
still older Welsh family. But my mother scorned the idea, and always
treated the organist as belonging to the lower classes.
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