Mr. Penrose was not long from college, and the metaphysics and dogmatics of the schools were more to his mind than the poetry and religion of this moorland child.  If asked to discourse on personality, or expound the latest phase of German thought, he would have felt himself at home.  Here, however, he who was the idol of the class-room sat silenced and foolish before a peasant girl.  True, he could enter into an argument for a future state, and show how spiritual laws opposed the mundane imagination of the child.  But, after all, wherein was the use?—­perhaps the child was nearer the truth than he was himself.  He would leave her to her own pristine fancies.

In a moment Milly continued: 

‘Th’ Bible says, Mr. Penrose, that i’ heaven there’s a street paved wi’ gowd (gold).  Naa; I’d raither hev a meadow wi’ posies, or th’ moors when they’re covered wi’ yethbobs.  If heaven’s baan to be all streets, I’d as soon stop o’ this side—­though they be paved wi’ gowd an’ o’.’

‘Listen yo’, how hoo talks, Mr. Penrose.  Hoo’s awlus talked i’ that feshion sin’ hoo were a little un.  Aar owd minister used to co her “God’s child."’

Mr. Penrose was a young man, and thought that ‘Nature’s child’ would be, perhaps, a more fitting name, but held his thought unuttered.  Wishing Milly and her mother a ‘Good-night,’ he descended the old stone staircase to the kitchen, where Abraham Lord sat smoking and looking gloomily into the embers of the fire.

‘Has th’ missus towd thee ought abaat aar Milly?’ somewhat sullenly interrogated the father.

‘Nothing of any moment,’ said Mr. Penrose.  ’Of course she could not; we were never together out of your daughter’s presence.’

‘Then aw’ll tell thee.  Milly’s baan to-morn to th’ infirmary to hev her leg tan off.’

The strong man shook in the convulsive grip of his grief.  No tears came to his relief; the storm was deep down in his soul; outlet there was none.

‘Mr. Penrose,’ said he, laying a hand on the minister’s shoulder; ‘Mr. Penrose, if I’d ha’ known afore I were wed that gettin’ wed meant a child o’ mine being tan fro’ me and cut i’ pieces by them doctor chaps, I’d never ha’ wed, fond o’ Martha as I wor and am.  No, Mr. Penrose, I never would.  They might tak’ me, and do what they’n a mind wi’ me, at their butcherin’ shops.  But her—­’

Here the strong man was swept by another convulsive storm of feeling too deep for utterance.  Subduing his passion by a supreme effort of will, he continued: 

’However, them as knows best says as it’s her only chance, and I’m noan goin’ agen it.  I shall go daan wi’ her mysel’ to-morn.’

* * * * *