He woke out of his daydream at the sound of footsteps—­the people were coming out, and glancing up he saw Joanna a few yards off.  She looked surprised to see him, but also she made no attempt to hide her pleasure.

“Mr. Trevor!  You here?”

“I came over to Ansdore to wish you a happy Christmas, and they told me you were still in church.”

“Yes—­I stopped for Communion—­” her mouth fell into a serious, reminiscent line, “you didn’t come to the first service, neither?”

“No, my brother’s at home, and he took charge of my father’s spiritual welfare—­they went off to church at Udimore, and I was too lazy to follow them.”

“I’m sorry you didn’t come here—­they used my harmonium, and it was valiant.”

He smiled at her adjective.

“I’ll come another day and hear your valiant harmonium.  I suppose you think everybody should go to church?”

“My father went, and I reckon I’ll keep on going.”

“You always do as your father did?”

“In most ways.”

“But not in all?—­I hear startling tales of new-shaped waggons and other adventures, to say nothing of your breaking up grass next spring.”

“Well, if you don’t see any difference between breaking up grass and giving up church ...”

“They are both a revolt from habit.”

“Now, don’t you talk like that—­it ain’t seemly.  I don’t like hearing a man make a mock of good things, and going to church is a good thing, as I should ought to know, having just come out of it.”

“I’m sorry,” said Martin humbly, and for some reason he felt ashamed.  They were walking now along the Pedlinge road, and the whole Marsh, so broad and simple, seemed to join in her rebuke of him.

She saw his contrite look, and repented of her sharpness.

“Come along home and have a bit of our Christmas dinner.”

Martin stuttered—­he had not expected such an invitation, and it alarmed him.

“We all have dinner together on Christmas Day,” continued Joanna, “men and gals, old Stuppeny, Mrs. Tolhurst, everybody—­we’d take it kindly if you’d join us.  But—­I’m forgetting—­you’ll be having your own dinner at home.”

“We shan’t have ours till the evening.”

“Oh—­late dinner”—­her tone became faintly reverential—­“it ud never do if we had that.  The old folk, like Stuppeny and such, ud find their stomachs keep them awake.  We’ve got two turkeys and a goose and plum puddings and mince pies, to say nothing of the oranges and nuts—­that ain’t the kind of food to go to bed with.”

“I agree,” said Martin, smiling.

“Then you’ll come and have dinner at Ansdore?”