piety.  After him, with some hesitation as became his lowlier station, came William Bull, six days in the week his master’s shepherd and faithful servant, but on the seventh an elder of the chapel, a person of consequence and dignity.  Then followed Joan and Cicely Strong together, sisters in the flesh, but as far apart in kin and the spirit as the poles of humanity themselves.  And lastly, Douglas Guest.  At the head of his shining mahogany table, with a huge Bible before him on which rested the knuckle of one clenched hand, stood Gideon Strong, the master of Feldwick Hall Farm.  It was at his bidding that these people had come together; they waited now for him to speak.  His was no common personality.  Neat in his dress, precise though local, with a curious mixture of dialects in his speech, he was feared by every man in Feldwick, whether he stood over them labouring or prayed amongst them in the little chapel, where every Sunday he took the principal place.  He was well set-up for all his unusual height and seventy years, with a face as hard as the ancient rocks which jutted from the Cumberland hillside, eyes as keen and grey and merciless as though every scrap of humanity which might ever have lain behind them had long since died out.  Just he reckoned himself and just he may have been, but neither man nor woman nor child had ever heard a kindly word fall from his lips.  Children ran indoors as he passed, women ceased their gossiping, men slunk away from a friendly talk as though ashamed.  If ever at harvest or Christmas time the spirit of good fellowship warmed the hearts of these country folk and loosened their tongues the grim presence of Gideon Strong was sufficient to check their merriment and send them silently apart.  He had been known to pray that sinners might meet with the punishment they deserved, both in this world and hereafter.  Such was Gideon Strong.

He cleared his throat and spoke, addressing the young man who sat on the corner of the horse-hair sofa, where the shadows of the room were darkest.

“Nephew Douglas,” he said, “to-day you ha’ come to man’s estate, and I ha’ summoned those here who will have to do wi’ your future to hear these few words.  The charge of you left on my shoulders by your shiftless parents has been a heavy one, but to-day I am quit of it.  The deacons of Feldwick chapel have agreed to appoint you their pastor, provided only that they be satisfied wi’ your discourse on the coming Sabbath.  See to it, lad, that ’ee preach the word as these good men and mysen have ever heard it.  Let there be no new-fangled ideas in thy teachings, and be not vain of thy learning, for therein is vanity and trouble.  Dost understand?” “I understand,” the young man answered slowly, and without enthusiasm.

“Learning and godliness are little akin,” said John Magee, in his thin treble.  “See to it, lad, that thou choosest the one which is of most account.”

“Ay, ay,” echoed the shepherd thickly.  “Ay, ay!” Douglas Guest answered nothing.  A sudden light had flashed in his dark eyes, and his lips had parted.  But almost at the same moment Gideon Strong stretched out his hand.