“No, Mr. Pierson; ’e ’as not.”

There was no expression on her face, perfectly blank it was—­Pierson had a mad longing to say ’For God’s sake, woman, speak out what’s in your mind; tell me what you think of me and my daughter.  Never mind my cloth!’ But he could no more say it than the woman could tell him what was in her mind.  And with a “Good morning” he passed on.  No man or woman would tell him anything, unless, perhaps, they were drunk.  He came to a public house, and for a moment even hesitated before it, but the thought of insult aimed at Noel stopped him, and he passed that too.  And then reality made itself known to him.  Though he had come out to hear what they were thinking, he did not really want to hear it, could not endure it if he did.  He had been too long immune from criticism, too long in the position of one who may tell others what he thinks of them.  And standing there in the crowded street, he was attacked by that longing for the country which had always come on him when he was hard pressed.  He looked at his memoranda.  By stupendous luck it was almost a blank day.  An omnibus passed close by which would take him far out.  He climbed on to it, and travelled as far as Hendon; then getting down, set forth on foot.  It was bright and hot, and the May blossom in full foam.  He walked fast along the perfectly straight road till he came to the top of Elstree Hill.  There for a few moments he stood gazing at the school chapel, the cricket-field, the wide land beyond.  All was very quiet, for it was lunch-time.  A horse was tethered there, and a strolling cat, as though struck by the tall black incongruity of his figure, paused in her progress, then, slithering under the wicket gate, arched her back and rubbed herself against his leg, crinkling and waving the tip of her tail.  Pierson bent down and stroked the creature’s head; but uttering a faint miaou, the cat stepped daintily across the road, Pierson too stepped on, past the village, and down over the stile, into a field path.  At the edge of the young clover, under a bank of hawthorn, he lay down on his back, with his hat beside him and his arms crossed over his chest, like the effigy of some crusader one may see carved on an old tomb.  Though he lay quiet as that old knight, his eyes were not closed, but fixed on the blue, where a lark was singing.  Its song refreshed his spirit; its passionate light-heartedness stirred all the love of beauty in him, awoke revolt against a world so murderous and uncharitable.  Oh! to pass up with that song into a land of bright spirits, where was nothing ugly, hard, merciless, and the gentle face of the Saviour radiated everlasting love!  The scent of the mayflowers, borne down by the sun shine, drenched his senses; he closed his eyes, and, at once, as if resenting that momentary escape, his mind resumed debate with startling intensity.  This matter went to the very well-springs, had a terrible and secret significance.  If to act