“The dying thief rejoiced to see
        That fountain in his day;
      And there may I, as vile as he,
        Wash all my sins away.”

Dale abruptly sat down, leaned forward, and then knelt upon the boarded floor, hiding his face in his hands.  He did not get up until the pastor had given the blessing and the people were moving out.

XIX

As so often happens toward the latter part of April, there had come a spell of unseasonably warm weather; thunder had been threatening for the last week, and now at the end of an oppressive day you could almost smell the electricity in the air.

Mavis warned Dale that he would get a sousing, when he told her that he was obliged to go as far as Rodchurch.

“Won’t it do to-morrow, Will?”

“No, I shan’t have time to-morrow.  Remember I’m not made of barley-sugar.  I shouldn’t melt, you know, even if I hadn’t got my mack.”

Norah fetched him his foul weather hat, and ran for his umbrella.

“No,” he said, “I don’t want that, my dear;” and he smiled at her very kindly.  “Besides, if we’re going to have a storm, an umbrella is just the article to bring the lightning down on my head.”

Norah pulled away the umbrella hastily, as though she would now have fought to the death rather than let him have it.

“Don’t wait supper, Mav.  I may be latish.”

He walked fast, and his mackintosh made him uncomfortably warm.  The rain held off, although now and then a few heavy drops fell ominously.  It was quite dark—­a premature darkness caused by the clouds that hung right across the sky.  There seemed to be nobody on the move but himself; the street at Rodchurch was absolutely empty, the tobacconist’s shop at the corner being alone awake and feebly busy, the oil lamps flickering in the puffs of a warm spring wind.

He took one glance toward the post office, and then went right down the street and out upon the common.  The house that he was seeking stood a little way off the road, and a broad beam of light from an open window proved of assistance as he crossed the broken and uneven ground.  While he groped for the bell handle inside the dark porch he could hear, close at hand, a purring and whirring sound of wheels that he recognized as the unmistakable noise made by a carpenter’s lathe.  As soon as he rang the bell the lathe stopped working, and next moment the Baptist pastor came to the door.

“Mr. Dale—­is it not?

“Yes—­good evening, Mr. Osborn.”

“Pray come in.”

“Thank you.  Could you spare time for a chat?”

“Surely.  I was expecting you.”

Dale drew back, and spoke coldly, almost rudely.

“Indeed?  I am not aware of any reason for your doing so.”

“I ought to have said, hoping to see you.”

“Oh.  May I ask why?”

Mr. Osborn laughed contentedly.  “Since I saw you at our service, you know.  Please come into my room.”