One Saturday evening he unburdened his heart to Taffy.  It happened at the end of the hay-harvest, and the two were leaning over a gate discussing the yet unthatched rick.

“What I say is,” declared the farmer quite in-consequently, “a man must be able to lay his troubles ’pon the Lord.  I don’t mean his work, but his troubles; and go home and shut the door and be happy with his wife and children.  Now, I tell you that for months—­iss, years—­after Bob was born I kept plaguing myself in the fields, thinking that some harm might have happened to the child.  Why, I used to make an excuse and creep home, and then if I see’d a blind pulled down you wouldn’t think how my heart’d go thump; and I’d stand wi’ my head on the door-hapse an’ say, ’If so be the Lord have took’n, I must go and comfort Susan—­not my will, but Thine, Lord—­ but, Lord, don’t ‘ee be cruel this time!’ And then find the cheeld right as ninepence and the blind only pulled down to keep the sun off the carpet.  After a while my wife guessed what was wrong—­I used to make up such poor twiddling pretences.  She said, ’Look here, the Lord and me’ll see after Bob; and if you can’t keep to your own work without poking your nose into ours, then I married for worse and not for better.’  Then it came upon me that by leaving the Lord to look after my job I’d been treating Him like a farm labourer.  It’s the things you can’t help he looks after—­not the work.”

A few evenings later there came a knock at the door, and Lizzie, who went to open it, returned with the Bryanite skipping behind her.

“Blessings be upon this here house!” he cried, cutting a sort of double shuffle on the threshold.  He shook hands with the farmer and his wife, and nodded toward Taffy.  “So you’ve got Parson Raymond’s boy here!”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Joll; and turned to Taffy.  “He’ve come to pray a bit:  perhaps you would rather be in the parlour?”

Taffy asked to be allowed to stay; and presently Mr. Pascoe had them all down on their knees.  He began by invoking God’s protection on the household; but his prayer soon ceased to be a prayer.  It broke into ejaculations of praise—­“Friends, I be too happy to ask for anything—­Glory, glory!  The blood!  The precious blood!  O deliverance!  O streams of redemption running!” The farmer and his wife began to chime in—­“Hallelujah!” “Glory!” and Lizzie Pezzack to sob.  Taffy, kneeling before a kitchen chair, peeped between his palms, and saw her shoulders heaving.

The Bryanite sprang to his feet, overturning the settle with a crash.  “Tid’n no use.  I must skip!  Who’ll dance wi’ me?”

He held out his hands to Mrs. Joll.  She took them, and skipped once shamefacedly.  Lizzie, with flaming cheeks, pushed her aside.  “Leave me try, mis’ess; I shall die if I don’t.”  She caught the preacher’s hands, and the two leapt about the kitchen.  “I can dance higher than mis’ess!” Farmer Joll looked on with a dazed face.  “Hallelujah!” “Amen!” he said at intervals, quite mechanically.  The pair stood under the bacon rack and began to whirl like dervishes—­hands clasped, toes together, bodies leaning back and almost rigid.  They whirled until Taffy’s brain whirled with them.