Ann Penhallow laughed.  In politics, morals and religion, she held unchanging sentiments.  “My dear James, people who make fables supply the morals.  I decline.”

“Very good, but you see mine.”

“I never see what I do not want to see,” which was pretty close to the truth.

“The fact is,” said Rivers, “I have preaccepted the Squire’s hint.  Grace is sick again.  I tell him it is that last immersion business.  I have promised to preach for him next Sunday, as your young curate at the mills wants to air his eloquence here.”

“Not really!” said Mrs. Ann, “at his chapel?”

“Yes, and I mean to use a part of our service.”

“If the Bishop knew it.”

“If! he would possibly forbid it, or be glad I did it.”

Mrs. Ann totally disapproved.  She took up her knitting and said no more, while Rivers and Penhallow talked of a disturbance at the works of no great moment.  The rector noticed Mrs. Penhallow’s sudden loss of interest in their talk and her failure to comment on his statement, an unusual thing with this woman, who, busy-minded as the bee, gathered honey of interest from most of the affairs of life.  In a pause of the talk he turned to her, “I am sorry to have annoyed you,” he said—­“I mean about preaching for Grace.”

“But why do you do it?”

“Because,” he returned, “my Master bids me.  Over and over one finds in His Word that he foreknew how men would differ and come to worship Him and use His revelations in ways which would depend on diversity of temperaments, or under the leadership of individual minds of great force.  It may be that it was meant that we should disagree, and yet—­I—­yet as to essentials we are one.  That I never can forget.”

“Then,” she said quickly, “you are of many creeds.”

“No and yes,” he returned smiling.  “In essentials yes, in ceremonial usage no; in some other morsels of belief held by others charitably dubious—­I dislike argument about religion in the brief inadequateness of talk—­especially with you from whom I am apt to differ and to whom I owe so much—­so very much.”

She took up her knitting again as she said, “I am afraid the balance of debt is on our side.”

“Then,” said Penhallow, who, too, disliked argument on religion, “if you have got through with additions to the useless squabbles of centuries, which hurt and never help, I—­”

“But,” broke in his wife, “I have had no answer.”

“Oh, but you have, Ann; for me, Rivers is right.”

“Then I am in a minority of one,” she returned, “but I have not had my say.”

“Well, dear, keep it for next time.  Now I want, as I said, a little counsel about John.”

“And about Leila, James.  Something has got to be done.”

The Squire said ruefully, “Yes, I suppose so.  I do not know that anything needs to be done.  You saw John’s condition before dinner.  He had a swollen nose and fair promise of a black eye.  I asked you to take no notice of it.  I wanted first to hear what had happened.  I got Leila on the porch and extracted it by bits.  It seems that Tom was rude to Leila.”