Mr. Churchouse always praised work for others and, indeed, was under the impression that he did his share.

“Same here,” replied the engineman, “especially while you’re young.  Anyway, if I had to choose between ’em, I’d sooner work.  ’Tis better for the mind and appetite.  And I lay if Mr. Ironsyde, when he lies down there, could tell the truth, he’d rather be hearing the Mill going six days a week and feeling his grave throbbing to my engines, than list to the sound of the church organ on the seventh.”

“Not so,” reproved Mr. Churchouse.  “We must not go so far as that.  Henry Ironsyde was a God-fearing man and respected the Sabbath as we all should, and most of us do.”

“The weaker vessels come to church, I grant,” said Benny, “but the men be after more manly things than church-going of a Sunday nowadays.”

“So much the worse for them,” declared Mr. Churchouse.  “Here,” he continued, “there are naturally more women than men.  Since my father and Henry Ironsyde’s father established these mills, which are now justly famous in the county, the natural result has happened and women have come here in considerable numbers.  Women preponderate in spinning places, because the work of spinning yarn has always been in their hands from time immemorial.  And they tend our modern machinery as deftly as of old they twirled the distaff and worked the spinning-wheel; and as steadily as they used to trudge the rope walks and spin, like spiders, from the masses of flax or hemp at their waists.”

“The females want religion without a doubt,” said Benny.  “I’m tokened to Mercy Gale, for instance; she looks after the warping wheels, and if that girl didn’t say her prayers some fine morning, she’d be as useless as if she hadn’t eat her breakfast.  ’Tis the feminine nature that craves for support.”

A very old man stood and peered into the grave.  He was the father of Levi Baggs, the hackler, and people said he was never seen except on the occasion of a funeral.  The ancient had been reduced to a mere wisp by the attrition of time.

He put his hand on the arm of Mr. Churchouse and regarded the grave with a nodding head.

“Ah, my dear soul,” he said.  “Life, how short—­eternity, how long!”

“True, most true, William.”

“And I ask myself, as each corpse goes in, how many more pits will open afore mine.”

“’Tis hid with your Maker, William.”

“Thank God I’m a good old man and ripe and ready,” said Mr. Baggs.  “Not,” he added, “that there’s any credit to me; for you can’t be anything much but good at ninety-two.”

“While the brain is spared we can think evil, William.”

“Not a brain like mine, I do assure ’e.”

A little girl ran into the churchyard—­a pretty, fair child, whose bright hair contrasted with the black she wore.

“They have come and father sent me to tell you, Mr. Churchouse,” she said.