Strangway. [Turning with a start] Ah!  Ivy.  Thank you. [He puts his flute down on a chair against the far wall] Where are the others?

As he speaks, Gladys Freman, a dark gipsyish girl, and Connie Trustaford, a fair, stolid, blue-eyed Saxon, both about sixteen, come in through the front door, behind which they have evidently been listening.  They too have prayer-books in their hands.  They sidle past Ivy, and also sit down under the window.

Gladys.  Mercy’s comin’, Mr. Strangway.

Strangway.  Good morning, Gladys; good morning, Connie.

He turns to a book-case on a table against the far wall, and taking out a book, finds his place in it.  While he stands thus with his back to the girls, mercy Jarland comes in from the green.  She also is about sixteen, with fair hair and china-blue eyes.  She glides in quickly, hiding something behind her, and sits down on the seat next the door.  And at once there is a whispering.

Strangway. [Turning to them] Good morning, Mercy.

Mercy.  Good morning, Mr. Strangway.

Strangway.  Now, yesterday I was telling you what our Lord’s coming meant to the world.  I want you to understand that before He came there wasn’t really love, as we know it.  I don’t mean to say that there weren’t many good people; but there wasn’t love for the sake of loving.  D’you think you understand what I mean?

     Mercy fidgets.  GLADYS’S eyes are following a fly.

Ivy.  Yes, Mr. Strangway.

Strangway.  It isn’t enough to love people because they’re good to you, or because in some way or other you’re going to get something by it.  We have to love because we love loving.  That’s the great thing —­without that we’re nothing but Pagans.

Gladys.  Please, what is Pagans?

Strangway.  That’s what the first Christians called the people who lived in the villages and were not yet Christians, Gladys.

Mercy.  We live in a village, but we’re Christians.

Strangway. [With a smile] Yes, Mercy; and what is a Christian?

     Mercy kicks afoot, sideways against her neighbour, frowns over
     her china-blare eyes, is silent; then, as his question passes
     on, makes a quick little face, wriggles, and looks behind her.

Strangway.  Ivy?

Ivy.  ’Tis a man—­whu—­whu——­

Strangway.  Yes?—­Connie?

Connie. [Who speaks rather thickly, as if she had a permanent slight cold] Please, Mr. Strangway, ’tis a man what goes to church.

Gladys.  He ’as to be baptised—­and confirmed; and—­and—­buried.

Ivy.  ’Tis a man whu—­whu’s gude and——­

Gladys.  He don’t drink, an’ he don’t beat his horses, an’ he don’t hit back.