The Squire had the good habit of second thought.  His wife knew it well and had often found it valuable and to be trusted.  At present he was thoroughly disgusted with the consequences of what he knew to be in some degree the result of his own feeling that he was bound to care for the man whose tie to him was one few men would have considered as in any serious degree obligatory.  The night brought good counsel, and he made up his mind next morning simply to let the foster-brother alone.  Fate decreed otherwise.  In the morning he was asked by his wife to go with her to the village; she wanted some advice.  He did not ask what, but said, “Of course.  I am to try the barber’s assistant I have brought from the mills to shave me, and what is more important—­Westways.  I have put him in our poor old Josiah’s shop.”

They went together to Pole’s, and returning she stopped before the barn-like building where Grace gathered on Sundays a scant audience to hear the sermons which Rivers had told him had too much heart and too little head.

“What is it?” asked Penhallow.

“I have heard, James, that their chapel (she never called it church) is leaking—­the roof, I mean.  Could not you pay for a new roof?”

“Of course, my dear—­of course.  It can’t cost much.  I will see Grace about it.”

“Thank you, James.”  On no account would she now have done this herself.  She was out of touch for the time with the whole business of politics, and to have indulged her usual gentle desire to help others would have implied obligation on the part of the Baptist to accept her wish that he should vote and use his influence for Buchanan.  Now the thing would be done without her aid.  In time her desire to see the Democrats win in the interest of her dear South would revive, but at present what with Grey and the threat of the practical application of the Fugitive-Slave Act and her husband’s disgust, she was disposed to let politics alone.

Presently, as they walked on, Peter Lamb stopped them.  “I’d like to speak to you for a moment, Mr. Penhallow.”  Mrs. Penhallow walked on.

“What is it?” said the Squire.

“I’m all right now—­I’ll never drink again.  I want some work—­and mother’s sick.”

“We will see to her, but you get no more work from me.”

“Why, what’s the matter, sir?”

“Matter!  You might ask Josiah if he were here.  You know well enough what you did—­and now I am done with you.”

“So help me God, I never—­”

“Oh! get out of my way.  You are a miserable, lying, ungrateful man, and I have done with you.”

He walked away conscious of having again lost his temper, which was rare.  The red-faced man he left stood still, his lips parted, the large yellow teeth showing.  “It’s that damned parson,” he said.

Penhallow rejoined his wife.  “What did he want?” she asked.

“Oh, work,” he said.  “I told him he could get no more from me.”