“An’ I’ll help,” said Billy, “an’ that chap messin’ about in the yard can lend a hand likewise.  I be a cracked vessel myself for strength, an’ past heavy work, but my best is yours to call ’pon in this pass.”

Will turned and left the sick-room without more words, while Billy followed him.

The farmer fetched two picks and a shovel, called Ted Chown and a minute later had struck the first blow towards restoration of his granite cross.  All laboured with their utmost power, and Will, who had flung off his coat and waistcoat, bared his arms, tightened his belt, and did the work of two men.  The manual labour sweetened his mind a little, and scoured it of some bitterness.  While Mr. Blee, with many a grunt and groan, removed the soil as the others broke it away, Blanchard, during these moments of enforced idleness, looked hungrily at the little window of the upper chamber where all his hopes and interests were centred.  Then he swung his pick again.

Presently a ray of sunlight brightened Newtake, and contributed to soothe the toiling father.  He read promise into it, and when three feet below the surface indications of cross-arms appeared upon the stone, Will felt still more heartened.  Grimbal’s prediction was now verified; and it remained only to prove Billy’s prophecy also true.  His tremendous physical exertions, the bright setting sunshine, and the discovery of the cross affected Will strangely.  His mind swung round from frank irreligion, to a sort of superstitious credulity, awestricken yet joyful, that made him cling to the saving virtue of the stone.  Because Martin had been right in his assertion concerning the gate-post, Blanchard felt a hazy conviction that Blee’s estimate of the stone’s virtue must also prove correct.  He saw his wife at the window, and waved to her, and cried aloud that the cross was uncovered.

“A poor thing in holy relics, sure ’nough,” said Billy, wiping his forehead.

“But a cross—­a clear cross?  Keep workin’, Chown, will ’e?  You still think ’twill serve, doan’t ’e, Blee?”

“No room for doubt, though woful out o’ repair,” answered Billy, occupied with the ancient monument.  “Just the stumps o’ the arms left, but more’n enough to swear by.”

All laboured on; then the stone suddenly subsided and fell in such a manner that with some sloping of one side of the excavated pit they were able to drag it out.

“Something’s talking to me as us have done the wan thing needful,” murmured Will, in a subdued voice, but with more light than the sunset on his face.  “Something’s hurting me bad that I said what I said in the chamber, an’ thought what I thought.  God’s nigher than us might think, minding what small creatures we be.  I hope He’ll forgive them words.”

“He’s a peacock for eyes, as be well knawn,” declared Mr. Blee.  “An’ He’ve got His various manners an’ customs o’ handlin’ the human race.  Some He softens wi’ gude things an’ gude fortune till they be bound to turn to Him for sheer shame; others He breaks ’pon the rocks of His wrath till they falls on their knees an’ squeals for forgiveness.  I’ve seed it both ways scores o’ times; an’ if your little lad ’s spared to ’e, you’ll be brought to the Lard by a easier way than you deserve, Blanchard.”