“Don’t you like your present?”

“Darling, it is beautiful,” she stooped and kissed him again, passionately.

“I’ve a present for father, too; a book.  Why are you walking so fast?” In a little while he asked again, “Why are you walking so fast?”

“I—­I thought you would be wanting your tea.”

“Mayn’t I take father his book first?”

She did not answer.

“But mayn’t I?” he persisted.

They had reached the garden-gate.  Humility seemed to hesitate. 
“Yes; go,” she said at length; and he ran, with the De Imitatione
Christi under his arm.

As he came within view of the church he saw a knot of men gathered about the door.  They were pulling something out from the porch.  He heard the noise of hammering, and Squire Moyle, at the back of the crowd, was shouting at the top of his voice: 

“The church is yours, is it?  I’ll see about that!  Pitch out the furnitcher, my billies—­that’s mine, anyway!”

Still the hammers sounded within the church.

“Don’t believe in sudden convarsion, don’t ’ee?  I reckon you will when you look round your church.  Bishop coming to consecrate it, is he?  Consecrate my furnitcher?  I’ll see you and your bishop to blazes first!”

A heap of shattered timber came flying through the porch.

“Your church, hey? Your church?”

The crowd fell back and Mr. Raymond stood in the doorway, between Bill Udy and Jim the Huntsman.  Bill Udy held a brazen ewer and paten, and Jim a hammer; and Mr. Raymond had a hand on one shoulder of each.

For a moment there was silence.  As Taffy came running through the lych-gate a man who had been sitting on a flat tombstone and watching, stood up and touched his arm.  It was Jacky Pascoe, the Bryanite.

“Best go back,” he said, “’tis a wisht poor job of it.”

Taffy halted for a moment.  The Squire’s voice had risen to a sudden scream—­he sputtered as he pointed at Mr. Raymond.

“There he is, naybours!  Get behind the varmint, somebody, and stop his earth!  Calls hisself a minister of God!  Calls it his church!”

Mr. Raymond took his hands off the men’s shoulders, and walked straight up to him.  “Not my church,” he said, aloud and distinctly.  “God’s church!”

He stretched out an arm.  Taffy, running up, supposed it stretched out to strike.  “Father!”

But Mr. Raymond’s palm was open as he lifted it over the Squire’s head.  “God’s church,” he repeated.  “In whose service, sir, I defy you.  Go! or if you will, and have the courage, come and stand while I kneel amid the ruin you have done and pray God to judge between us.”

He paused, with his eyes on the Squire’s.

“You dare not, I see.  Go, poor coward, and plan what mischief you will.  Only now leave me in peace a little.”