Now Nicky-Nan was naturally fond of children, as by nature he had been designed for a family man; and children gave him their confidence without knowing why.  But in his early manhood a girl had jilted him, which turned him against women:  later, in the Navy, the death of a friend and messmate, to whom he had transferred all the loyalty of his heart, set him questioning many things in a silent way.  He had never been able to dissipate affection or friendship:  and his feelings when hurt, being sensitive as the horns of a snail, withdrew themselves as swiftly into a shell and hid there as obstinately:  by consequence of which he earned (without deserving) a name not often entered upon the discharge-sheets of the Royal Navy.  But there it stood on his, in black upon white—­“A capable seaman. Morose.”

He had carried this character, with his discharge-sheet, back to Polpier, where his old friends and neighbours—­who had known him as a brisk upstanding lad, sociable enough, though maybe a trifle shy—­ edged away from the taciturn man who returned to them.  Nor did it help his popularity that he attended neither Church nor Chapel:  for Polpier is a deeply religious place, in its fashion.

Some of the women-folk—­notably Mrs Polsue, the widow-woman, and Miss Cherry (Charity) Oliver, a bitter spinster—­spoke to the Wesleyan Minister about this.

The Minister listened to them politely.  He was the gentlest of little men and had a club-foot.  Mrs Polsue and Miss Oliver (who detested one another) agreed that it would be a day of grace when his term among them expired and he was “planned” for some other place where Christianity did not matter as it did in Polpier.  They gave various reasons for this:  but their real reason (had they lived in a Palace of Truth) was that the Rev. Mark Hambly never spoke evil of any one, nor listened to gossip save with a loose attention.

“The man has a wandering mind!” declared Miss Oliver.  “It don’t seem able to fix itself.  If you’ll believe me, when I told him about Bestwetherick’s daughter and how she’d got herself into trouble at last, all he could say was, ’Yes, yes, poor thing!’—­and invite me to kneel down an’ pray she might come safely through it!”

“You surely weren’t so weak as to do it?” said Mrs Polsue, scandalised.

“Me?” exclaimed Cherry.  “Pray for that baggage?  To start with, I’d be afeard the Lord’d visit it on me. . . .  An’ then it came out he’d Known the whole affair for more than two months.  The girl had been to him.”

“And he never told? . . .  I tell you what, Cherry Oliver!  It’s my belief that man would set up a confessional, if he could.”

“Don’t ‘ee tell up such things, Mary-Martha Polsue, or I’ll go an’ drown myself!”

“And why not?—­he bein’ so thick with Parson Steele, that sticks up ‘High Mass’ ’pon his church door and is well known to be hand-in-glove with the Pope.  I tell you I saw the pair meet this very Wednesday down by the bridge as I happened to be lookin’ out waitin’ to scold the milk-boy:  and they shook hands and stood for up-three-minutes colloguin’ together.”