Mr. Raymond climbed the hill toward the towans with the carpenter’s frail slung over his shoulder.  As luck would have it, near the top he met Squire Moyle descending on horseback.  The Vicar nodded “Good-morning” in passing, but had not gone a dozen steps when the old man reined up and called after him.

“Hi!”

The Vicar halted.

“Whose basket is that you’re carrying?” Then, getting no answer, “Wait till next Saturday night, when Joel Hugh comes to thank you.  I suppose you know he rents his cottage by the week?”

“No harm shall come to him through me,” said the Vicar, and retraced his steps down the hill.  The Squire followed at a foot-pace, grinning as he went.

That night Mr. Raymond went back to his beloved books, but not to read; and early next morning was ready at the cross-roads for the van which plied twice a week between Innis village and Truro.  He had three boxes with him—­heavy boxes, as Calvin the van-driver remarked when it came to lifting them on board.

“Thee’rt not leaving us, surely?” said he.

“No.”

“But however didst get these lumping boxes up the hill?”

“My son helped me.”

He had modestly calculated on averaging a shilling a volume for his books; but discovered on leaving the shop at Truro that it worked out at one-and-threepence.  He returned to Nannizabuloe that night with one box only—­but it was packed full of tools—­and a copy of Fuller’s “Holy State,” which at the last moment had proved too precious to be parted with—­at least, just yet.

The woodwork of the old pews—­painted deal for the most part, but mixed with a few boards of good red pine and one or two of teak, relics of some forgotten shipwreck—­lay stacked in the belfry and around the font under the west gallery.  Mr. Raymond and Taffy spent an hour in overhauling it, chose out the boards for their first pew, and fell to work.

At the end of another hour the pair broke off and looked at each other.  Taffy could not help laughing.  His own knowledge of carpentry had been picked up by watching Joel Hugh at work, and just sufficed to tell him that his father was possibly the worst carpenter in the world.

“I think my fingers must be all thumbs,” declared Mr. Raymond.

The puckers in his face set Taffy laughing afresh.  They both laughed and fell to work again, the boy explained his notions of the difficult art of mortising.  They were rudimentary, but sound as far as they went, and his father recognised this.  Moreover, when the boy had a tool to handle he did it with a natural deftness, in spite of his ignorance.  He was Humility’s child, born with the skill-of-hand of generations of lace-workers.  He did a dozen things wrongly, but he neither fumbled, nor hammered his fingers, nor wounded them with the chisel—­which was Humility’s husband’s way.

At the end of four days of strenuous effort, they had their first pew built.  It was a recognisable pew, though it leaned to one side, and the door (for it had a door) fell to with a bang if not cautiously treated.  The triumph was, the seat could be sat upon without risk.  Mr. Raymond and Taffy tested it with their combined weight on the Saturday evening, and went home full of its praises.