Mr Crawley, ever since first coming into Hogglestock, had been very busy among these brickmakers, and by no means without success.  Indeed the farmers had quarrelled with him because the brickmakers had so crowded the parish church, as to leave but scant room for decent people.  ’Doo they folk pay tithes?  That’s what I want’un to tell me?’ argued one farmer—­not altogether unnaturally, believing as he did that Mr Crawley was paid by tithes out of his own pocket.  But Mr Crawley had done his best to make the brickmaker welcome at the church, scandalising the farmers by causing them to sit or stand in any portion of the church which was hitherto unappropriated.  He had been constant in his personal visits to them, and had felt himself to more a St Paul with them than with any other of his neighbours around him.

It was a cold morning, but the rain of the preceding evening had given way to frost, and the air, though sharp, was dry.  The ground under the feet was crisp, having felt the wind and frost, and was no longer clogged with mud.  In his present state of mind the walk was good for our poor pastor, and exhilarated him; but still, as he went, he thought always of his injuries.  His own wife believed that he was about to commit suicide, and for so believing he was very angry with her; and yet, as he well knew, the idea of making away with himself had flitted through his own mind a dozen times.  Not from his own wife could he get real sympathy.  He would see what he could do with a certain brickmaker of his acquaintance.

‘Are you here, Dan?’ he said, knocking at the door of a cottage which stood alone, close to the towing path of the canal, and close also to a forlorn corner of the muddy, watery, ugly, disordered brick-field.  It was now just past six o’clock, and the men would be rising, as in midwinter they commenced their work at seven.  The cottage was an unalluring, straight brick-built tenement, seeming as though intended to be one of a row which had never progressed beyond Number One.  A voice answered from the interior, inquiring who was the visitor, to which Mr Crawley replied by giving his name.  Then the key was turned in the lock, and Dan Morris, the brickmaker, appeared with a candle in his hand.  He had been engaged in lighting the fire, with a view to his own breakfast.  ‘Where is your wife, Dan?’ asked Mr Crawley.  The man answered by pointing with a short poker, which he held in his hand, to the bed, which was half-screened from the room by a ragged curtain, which hung from the ceiling half-way down to the floor.  ‘And are the Darvels here?’ asked Mr Crawley.  Then Morris, again using the poker, pointed upwards, showing that the Darvels were still in their allotted abode upstairs.

‘You’re early out, Muster Crawley,’ said Morris, and then he went on with his fire.  ’Drat the sticks, if they bean’t as wet as the old ’un hisself.  Get up, old woman, and do you do it, for I can’t.  They wun’t kindle for me, nohow.’  But the old woman, having well noted the presence of Mr Crawley, thought it better to remain where she was.