’True—­’tis nater’s law, which no man shall gainsay.  Ah, well do I bear in mind what I said to Pa’son Raunham, about thy mother’s family o’ seven, Gad, the very first week of his comen here, when I was just in my prime.  “And how many daughters has that poor Weedy got, clerk?” he says.  “Six, sir,” says I, “and every one of ’em has a brother!” “Poor woman,” says he, “a dozen children!—­give her this half-sovereign from me, clerk.”  ’A laughed a good five minutes afterwards, when he found out my merry nater—­’a did.  But there, ‘tis over wi’ me now.  Enteren the Church is the ruin of a man’s wit for wit’s nothen without a faint shadder o’ sin.’

’If so be Teddy and the lady had been kept apart for life, they’d both ha’ died,’ said Gad emphatically.

‘But now instead o’ death there’ll be increase o’ life,’ answered the clerk.

‘It all went proper well,’ said the fifth bell-ringer.  ’They didn’t flee off to Babylonish places—­not they.’  He struck up an attitude —­’Here’s Master Springrove standen so:  here’s the married woman standen likewise; here they d’walk across to Knapwater House; and there they d’bide in the chimley corner, hard and fast.’

’Yes, ‘twas a pretty wedden, and well attended,’ added the clerk.  ’Here was my lady herself—­red as scarlet:  here was Master Springrove, looken as if he half wished he’d never a-come—­ah, poor souls!—­the men always do!  The women do stand it best—­the maid was in her glory.  Though she was so shy the glory shone plain through that shy skin.  Ah, it did so’s.’

‘Ay,’ said Gad, ’and there was Tim Tankins and his five journeymen carpenters, standen on tiptoe and peepen in at the chancel winders.  There was Dairyman Dodman waiten in his new spring-cart to see ’em come out—­whip in hand—­that ’a was.  Then up comes two master tailors.  Then there was Christopher Runt wi’ his pickaxe and shovel.  There was wimmen-folk and there was men-folk traypsen up and down church’ard till they wore a path wi’ traypsen so—­letten the squallen children slip down through their arms and nearly skinnen o’ em.  And these were all over and above the gentry and Sunday-clothes folk inside.  Well, I seed Mr. Graye at last dressed up quite the dand.  “Well, Mr. Graye,” says I from the top o’ church’ard wall, “how’s yerself?” Mr. Graye never spoke—­he’d prided away his hearen.  Seize the man, I didn’ want en to spak.  Teddy hears it, and turns round:  “All right, Gad!” says he, and laughed like a boy.  There’s more in Teddy.’

‘Well,’ said Clerk Crickett, turning to the man in black, ’now you’ve been among us so long, and d’know us so well, won’t ye tell us what ye’ve come here for, and what your trade is?’

‘I am no trade,’ said the thin man, smiling, ’and I came to see the wickedness of the land.’

‘I said thou wast one o’ the devil’s brood wi’ thy black clothes,’ replied a sturdy ringer, who had not spoken before.

‘No, the truth is,’ said the thin man, retracting at this horrible translation, ‘I came for a walk because it is a fine evening.’