‘I durnd know, Mr. Penrose, as I want ony friends.’

’I think there’s one Friend you cannot do without—­the one you recommended me to keep in the pulpit.  Don’t you think we need Him in the home as well?’

‘Ther’s noabry kept Him aat o’ aar haas, as I know on, hes ther, Sally?’ said Moses, turning to his wife.

’Doesto think ‘at onybody’s axed Him?’ she replied.  ’And if He coome, what kind o’ a welcome would He ged, thinksto?  I know thaa reckons to meet Him on a Sundo, and when thaa sits at “His table,” as tha co’s th’ sacrament, and at th’ deacons’ meetings.  But that’s abaat as mich on Him as yo’ want, I think.’

Mr. Penrose stood up to leave, but, recollecting himself, he said: 

‘Shall I pray with you, Mr. Fletcher?’

To which he received the curt reply: 

‘Thaa con pleeas thisel.’

Mr. Penrose knelt by the bedside of the poor mammon-worshipper—­self-blinded and hardened by the god of this world—­and with a full soul cried: 

’Merciful Father!  Who hast forgiven so much, and in whose continued forgiveness lies our only hope, inspire us with the spirit of Thy forgiveness towards all men, and grant that Thy great heart, which bears enmity towards none, may so warm these selfish hearts of ours that we may not only love our neighbours but our enemies, with the love wherewith we are loved.  Pardon our littlenesses, consume our selfishness, and fashion us after Him whose strength bore all burdens, whose heart heard all entreaties, and whose love went out alike to friend and foe.  Amen.’

* * * * *

It was in the golden autumn weather when Moses and his dog, for the first time after the melee, turned out for an afternoon’s stroll.  Both bore sore evidences of the severity of the struggle, one being bandaged over his forehead, the other following with tell-tale limp and disfigured coat.

Not caring to face the inquisitorial eye of the villagers, nor hear the rude sarcasm and stinging wit which he knew they would hurl at him from their tongues, Moses turned down a foot-road leading from his garden to Folly Clough, and thus secured the quiet ever found in those deeply-wooded seams that plough into the very heart of the moors.  Following the water-worn path which wound in tortuous ascent under clustering trees and between slopes of bracken, the two soon gained the head of the Clough, and climbed towards the banks of the Green Fold Lodge, a stretch of water into which drained the moisture of vast tracts of uplands, its overflow rushing through flood-gates and pouring its volume through the Clough to feed the factories below.  Seating himself on the bank of the Lodge, he recalled the day when he rescued his dog from its chill deeps, and, turning to Captain, he said: 

‘It wor welly bein’ thi grave once, owd lad.  Aw wonder why it wor aw saved thee.  Thaa’s getten many a lickin’ (thrashing) sin’ then on my accaant.’