LITMIR.BIZ

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ovver t’ moor, about half past six, he heard a shot, and saw Ben Craven come from behind a whin bush, and run toward t’ village; and a minute after Bill Laycock came in sight; and Ben, he said, ran past him, also; and Laycock looked after Ben, and said to Bingley—‘that’s Ben Craven; he’s in a bit of a hurry, I think.’ ”

      “Was Laycock coming from the moor also?”

      “Nay, he was coming from t’ village, and was going across t’ moor to a knur match on Eltham Common.”

      “Did Laycock swear to that?”

      “Ay, he did. He were varry loth to do it; for Ben and him hed laked together when they were lads, and been thick as thack iver since, till Mary Clough came between ’em. But I noticed one thing, and I think the jury saw it, too—when Laycock were asked, ‘if he were sure it was Ben that passed him,’ he turned white to the varry lips, and could scarce make out to whisper, ‘Ay, he were sure.‘ Then Ben looked at him, and I’ll nivver forget that look, no, nor any body else that saw it, and least of a’ t’ man hes got it.”

      “You think Laycock swore to a lie?”

      “I know he swore to a lie.”

      “It is a pity that Ben’s working-suit has never been found.”

      “It’ll come to light; see if it doesn’t.”

      “Who spoke for Ben?”

      “I did. I told t’ truth, and there’s none that knows me hes a doubt o’ that. I said that Ben came home a bit early. He hed his cup o’ tea wi’ me, and I told him how bad off Sarah Fisher was; and I said, ‘I’ll wash up t’ tea things, lad, and go bide wi’ her till it’s chapel time; and so thou be ready to go wi’ me.’ Before I went out I looked into Ben’s room, and he’d dressed himsen up i’ his Sunday clothes, and were sitting studying i’ a book called ‘Mechanics;’ and I said, ‘Why, Ben! Whatever hes ta put thy best clothes on for?’ I knew right well it was for Mary Clough, but I wasn’t too well pleased wi’ Mary, and so I couldn’t help letting him see as he weren’t deceiving me; and Ben said, ‘Nivver thee mind, mother, what clothes I’ve on, and don’t be too late for t’ chapel.’ ”

      “And yet Bingley and Laycock swore that Ben had his working-clothes on?”

      “Ay, they sware that.”

      “You are come into deep waters, Martha.”

      “Ay, I am; but there’s One on t’ water wi’ me. I hev his hand, and he’s none going to let me sink. And good-night to you, dearies, now; for I want to be alone wi’ him. He isn’t far off; you can tak’ t’ word of a sorrowful woman that he lets himsen be found, if nobbut you’re i’ earnest seeking him.”

      She turned from them, and seated herself before her lonely hearthstone, and Phyllis saw her glance upward at the four words, that even in the darkest night was clear to her—“In God we trust.”

      “Martha used to be so curious, so gossippy, so well acquainted with all her neighbors, so anxious for their good opinion, that it strikes me as singular,” said Elizabeth, “that she seems to have forgotten the whole village, and to be careless as to its verdict. Does sorrow make us indifferent, I wonder?”

      “No, I think not; but the happy look at things upon their own level—the earth-level; the sorrowful look up.”

      Not far from Martha’s garden gate they met the Methodist preacher. He was going to see Martha, but hearing of her wish to be alone, he turned and walked with Phyllis and Elizabeth toward the park. He was a little man, with an unworldly air, and very clear truthful eyes. People came to their cottage doors and looked curiously at the trio, as they went slowly toward the hall, the preacher between the girls, and talking earnestly to them.

      “Well I nivver!” said old Peggy Howarth, nodding her head wisely, “what does ta think o’ that, Jane Sykes?”

      “It beats ivery thing! There’s Ezra Dixon. He’s on his way to a class-meeting, I’ll lay thee owt ta likes; Ezra!”

      “Well, woman! What does ta want?”

      “Does ta see Miss Hallam and that American lass wi’ t’ preacher?”

      “For sure I do. They’re in varry good company.”

      “They’ll hev been at Martha Cravens, depend on’t. They say Martha taks it varry quiet like.”

      “Ay, she’s none o’ them as whimpers and whines. Now if it wer’ thee, Peggy, thou’d worrit, and better worrit; as if worritting wer’ thy trade, and thou hed to work at it for thy victuals. Martha’s none like that. Is ta going to thy class to-night?”

      “Nay, then, I’m not going.”

      “I’d go if I was thee, Peggy. Thou’lt hev thysen to talk about there, and thou’lt not be tempted to say things about t’ Cravens thou wont be able to stand up to.”

      “I’d hev some human nature in me, Ezra Dixon, if I was thee. To think o’ this being t’ first murder as iver was i’ Hallam! and thou talking as if I ought to buckle up my tongue about it.”

      “Thou ought; but ‘oughts’ stand for nothing. To be sure thou’ll talk about it; but go and talk i’ thy class-meeting wi’ Josiah Banks looking i’ thy face, and then thou’ll talk wi’ a kind heart. Do as I tell thee.”

      “Nay, I’ll not do it.”

      “Thou nivver will disappoint t’ devil, Peggy.”

      Peggy did not answer; she was too much interested in the rector’s proceedings. He was actually crossing the road and joining the ladies and the preacher.

      “Now, then! Dost ta see that, Ezra? Whativer’s coming to folk? Why-a! They’re a’ going on together!”

      “Why not? T’ rector’s a varry good man. It ‘ud be strange if he didn’t feel for poor Martha as well as ivery other kind heart. Her trouble hes made a’ maks o’ Christians feel together.”

      “If Martha was nobbut a Church o’ England woman.”

      “Dost ta really think that t’ rector is cut on that sort o’ a pattern? Not he. A man may be a Christian, Peggy, even if he isn’t a Wesleyan Methody. Them’s my principles, and I’m not a bit ‘shamed o’ them.”

      It was quite true; the rector had joined the girls and the preacher, and they walked on together as far as the park gates, talking of Martha and her great sorrow and great faith. Then the preacher turned back, carrying with him to his little chapel the strength that comes from real Christian sympathy and communion.

      “What clear prophetic eyes that Mr. North has,” said the rector, as they walked thoughtfully under the green arches of the elms.

      “He lives very near to the other world,” said Phyllis; “I think his eyes have got that clear far-off look with habitually gazing into eternity. It is a great privilege to talk to him, for one always feels that he is just from the presence of God.”

      “I have heard that you are a Dissenter, Miss Fontaine.”

      “O no, I am not. I am a Methodist.”

      “That is what I meant.”

      “But the two are not the same. I am quite sure that the line between Dissent and Methodism has been well defined from the beginning.”

      The rector smiled tolerantly down at Phyllis’s bright thoughtful face, and said: “Do young ladies in America study theological history?”

      “I think most of them like to understand the foundation upon which their spiritual faith is built. I have found every side study of Methodism very interesting. Methodism is a more charitable and a more spiritual thing than Dissent.”

      “Are you sure of that?”

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