‘For sure hoo will; bud he’ll be i’ th’ pulpit, and not agen her to keep her fro’ bein’ ‘onely like.’

’Ey, mother, aw sometimes think it must be a grand thing for a woman to see her felley in a pulpit.’

‘Don’t thee go soft on parsons, lass,’ said her father.

* * * * *

If there had been no other welcome to the minister’s wife on her Sabbath advent at Rehoboth, there was the welcome of Nature—­the welcome born of the bridal hour of morn with moorland, when the awakening day bends over, and clasps with its glory the underlying and far-reaching hills.  From out a cloudless sky—­save where wreaths of vapour fringed the rounding blue—­the sun put forth his golden arms towards the heathery sweeps that lay with their rounded bosoms greedy for his embrace, and gave himself in wantonness to his bride, kissing her fair face into blushing loveliness, and calling forth from the womb of the morning a myriad forms of life.  Earth lay breathless in the clasp of heaven—­they twain were one, perfect in union, and in spirit undivided.  Rehoboth was seductive with a sweetness known only to the nuptials of Nature in a morning of sunshine on the moors.

It wanted two hours before service, and the young wife was wandering among the flowers of the garden of the manse that was to be her home, her spouse seated at his study window intent on the manuscript of his morning’s discourse.  Intent?  Nay, for his eye often wandered from the underscored pages to the girl-wife who glided with merry heart and lithe footstep from flower to flower, her skirts wet as she swept the dew-jewels that glistened on the lawn and borders of the gay parterres.  She, poor girl! supposing herself unwatched, drank deeply of the morning gladness, her joyous step now and again falling into the rhythmic movements of a dance.  She even found herself humming airs that were not sacred—­airs forbidden even on weekdays in the puritanic precincts of Rehoboth—­airs she had learned in the distant city once her home.  Was she not happy? and does not happiness voice itself in song?  And is not the song of the happy always sacred—­and sacred even on the most sacred of days?

Alas! alas! little did the young wife know the puritanic mood of Rehoboth.  Behind the privet hedge fencing off the paradise, on this good Sunday morning, lurked Amos Entwistle.

The old man, hearing the voice on his way to Sunday-school, stopped, and, peeping through the fence, saw what confirmed his bitterest prejudices against the woman whom Mr. Penrose had married; and before a half-hour was passed every teacher and scholar in Rehoboth school was told that ‘th’ parson bed wed a doncin’ lass fro’ a theyater.’

Standing in his desk before the first hymn was announced, Amos cried in loud tones: