But Mr. Barton is all for th’ hymns, and a sort o’ music as I can’t join in at all.’

‘And so,’ said Mr. Pilgrim, recalling Mr. Hackit from lyrical reminiscences to narrative, ’he called out Silence! did he? when he got into the pulpit; and gave a hymn out himself to some meeting-house tune?’

‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Hackit, stooping towards the candle to pick up a stitch, ’and turned as red as a turkey-cock.  I often say, when he preaches about meekness, he gives himself a slap in the face.  He’s like me—­he’s got a temper of his own.’

‘Rather a low-bred fellow, I think, Barton,’ said Mr. Pilgrim, who hated the Reverend Amos for two reasons—­because he had called in a new doctor, recently settled in Shepperton; and because, being himself a dabbler in drugs, he had the credit of having cured a patient of Mr. Pilgrim’s.  ’They say his father was a Dissenting shoemaker; and he’s half a Dissenter himself.  Why, doesn’t he preach extempore in that cottage up here, of a Sunday evening?’

’Tchuh!’—­this was Mr. Hackit’s favourite interjection—­’that preaching without book’s no good, only when a man has a gift, and has the Bible at his fingers’ ends.  It was all very well for Parry—­he’d a gift; and in my youth I’ve heard the Ranters out o’ doors in Yorkshire go on for an hour or two on end, without ever sticking fast a minute.  There was one clever chap, I remember, as used to say, “You’re like the woodpigeon; it says do, do, do all day, and never sets about any work itself.”  That’s bringing it home to people.  But our parson’s no gift at all that way; he can preach as good a sermon as need be heard when he writes it down.  But when he tries to preach wi’out book, he rambles about, and doesn’t stick to his text; and every now and then he flounders about like a sheep as has cast itself, and can’t get on’ts legs again.  You wouldn’t like that, Mrs. Patten, if you was to go to church now?’

‘Eh, dear,’ said Mrs. Patten, falling back in her chair, and lifting up her little withered hands, ’what ’ud Mr. Gilfil say, if he was worthy to know the changes as have come about i’ the Church these last ten years?  I don’t understand these new sort o’ doctrines.  When Mr. Barton comes to see me, he talks about nothing but my sins and my need o’ marcy.  Now, Mr. Hackit, I’ve never been a sinner.  From the fust beginning, when I went into service, I al’ys did my duty by my emplyers.  I was a good wife as any in the county—­never aggravated my husband.  The cheese-factor used to say my cheese was al’ys to be depended on.  I’ve known women, as their cheeses swelled a shame to be seen, when their husbands had counted on the cheese-money to make up their rent; and yet they’d three gowns to my one.  If I’m not to be saved, I know a many as are in a bad way.  But it’s well for me as I can’t go to church any longer, for if th’ old singers are to be done away with, there’ll be nothing left as it was in Mr. Patten’s time; and what’s more, I hear you’ve settled to pull the church down and build it up new?’