‘Did it ever strike thee, Enoch, that there were a deal o’ mountain climbin’ among th’ owd prophets—­like as they fun th’ Almeety on th’ brow (hill)?’

‘Aw never made much o’ th’ valleys, lad.  Them as lived in ’em hes bin a bad lot.  We may well thank God as we live up as high as we do.  But I’ll tell yo’ what—­we’re baan to be lat’ for the service.  Step it aat, lasses.’

On reaching the chapel yard, they found Amos Entwistle dismissing his catechism class with a few words of warning as to deportment during service, whilst old Joseph was busy cuffing the unruly lads whose predilections for dodging round the gravestones overcame the better instinct of reverence for the day and for the dead.  Mr. Penrose was just entering the vestry, and discordant sounds came through the open door as of stringed instruments in process of tuning.

The congregation was soon seated—­a hardy race, reared on the hills, and disciplined in the straitest of creeds.  Stolid and self-complacent, theirs was an unquestioning faith, accepting, as they did, the Divine decrees as a Mohamedan accepts his fate.  What was, was right—­all as it should be; elect, or non-elect, according to the fore-knowledge, it was well.  Sucking in their theology with their mothers’ milk, and cradled in sectarian traditions, they loved justice before mercy, and seldom walked humbly before God.  And yet these Rehoboth mothers had borne and reared a strong offspring—­children hard, narrow, and self-righteous, yet of firm fibre, and of real grit withal.

The mothers of Rehoboth were famous women, and bore the names of the great Hebrew women of old.  Among them were Leahs, Hannahs, Hagars, and Ruths, yet none held priority to Deborah Heap, the mother of Matt.  Tall, gaunt, iron-visaged, with crisp, black locks despite her threescore years, she was a prophetess among her kindred—­mighty in the Scriptures, and inflexible in faith.

Hers was the illustrious face of that afternoon’s congregation—­the face a stranger would first fasten his eye on, and on which his eye would remain; a face, too, he would fear.  History was writ large on every line, character had set its seal there, and a crown of superb strength reposed on the brow.  She guarded the door of her pew, which door she had guarded since her husband’s death; and her deep-set eyes, glowing with suppressed passion, never flinched in their gaze at the preacher.  Now and again the thin nostrils dilated as Mr. Penrose smote down some of her idols; but for this occasional sign her martyrdom was mute and inexpressive.

No one loved Deborah Heap, although those who knew her measured out to her degrees of respect.  She was never known to wrong friend or foe; and yet no kindly words ever fell from her lips, nor did music of sympathy mellow her voice.  Her life had been unrelieved by a single deed of charity.  She was, in old Mr. Morell’s language, ‘a negative saint.’  Mr. Penrose went further, and called her ‘a Calvinistic pagan.’  But none of these things moved her.