I sat on the bench by the kitchen door and regarded Margaret Henan, while with her callous thumb she pressed down the live fire of her pipe and gazed out across the twilight-sombred fields.  It was the very bench Tom Henan had sat upon that last sanguinary day of life.  And Margaret sat in the doorway where the monster, blinking at the sun, had so often wagged its head and brayed.  We had been talking for an hour, she with that slow certitude of eternity that so befitted her; and, for the life of me, I could lay no finger on the motives that ran through the tangled warp and woof of her.  Was she a martyr to Truth?  Did she have it in her to worship at so abstract a shrine?  Had she conceived Abstract Truth to be the one high goal of human endeavour on that day of long ago when she named her first-born Samuel?  Or was hers the stubborn obstinacy of the ox? the fixity of purpose of the balky horse? the stolidity of the self-willed peasant-mind?  Was it whim or fancy?—­the one streak of lunacy in what was otherwise an eminently rational mind?  Or, reverting, was hers the spirit of a Bruno?  Was she convinced of the intellectual rightness of the stand she had taken?  Was hers a steady, enlightened opposition to superstition? or—­and a subtler thought—­was she mastered by some vaster, profounder superstition, a fetish-worship of which the Alpha and the Omega was the cryptic Samuel?

“Wull ye be tellun’ me,” she said, “thot uf the second Samuel hod been named Larry thot he would no hov fell un the hot watter an’ drownded?  Atween you an’ me, sir, an’ ye are untellugent-lookun’ tull the eye, would the name hov made ut onyways dufferent?  Would the washun’ no be done thot day uf he hod been Larry or Michael?  Would hot watter no be hot, an’ would hot watter no burn uf he hod hod ony other name but Samuel?”

I acknowledged the justice of her contention, and she went on.

“Do a wee but of a name change the plans o’ God?  Do the world run by hut or muss, an’ be God a weak, shully-shallyun’ creature thot ud alter the fate an’ destiny o’ thungs because the worm Margaret Henan seen fut tull name her bairn Samuel?  There be my son Jamie.  He wull no sign a Rooshan-Funn un hus crew because o’ believun’ thot Rooshan-Funns do be monajun’ the wunds an’ hov the makun’ o’ bod weather.  Wull you be thunkun’ so?  Wull you be thunkun’ thot God thot makes the wunds tull blow wull bend Hus head from on high tull lussen tull the word o’ a greasy Rooshan-Funn un some dirty shup’s fo’c’sle?”

I said no, certainly not; but she was not to be set aside from pressing home the point of her argument.

“Then wull you be thunkun’ thot God thot directs the stars un their courses, an’ tull whose mighty foot the world uz but a footstool, wull you be thunkun’ thot He wull take a spite again’ Margaret Henan an’ send a bug wave off the Cape tull wash her son un tull eternity, all because she was for namun’ hum Samuel?”