‘I’m glad, sir,’ said Higgins, with a curious wink of his eye, ‘that yo’ put in, “so they think.”  I’d ha’ thought yo’ a hypocrite, I’m afeard, if yo’ hadn’t, for all yo’r a parson, or rayther because yo’r a parson.  Yo’ see, if yo’d spoken o’ religion as a thing that, if it was true, it didn’t concern all men to press on all men’s attention, above everything else in this ‘varsal earth, I should ha’ thought yo’ a knave for to be a parson; and I’d rather think yo’ a fool than a knave.  No offence, I hope, sir.’

’None at all.  You consider me mistaken, and I consider you far more fatally mistaken.  I don’t expect to convince you in a day,—­not in one conversation; but let us know each other, and speak freely to each other about these things, and the truth will prevail.  I should not believe in God if I did not believe that.  Mr. Higgins, I trust, whatever else you have given up, you believe’—­(Mr. Hale’s voice dropped low in reverence)—­’you believe in Him.’

Nicholas Higgins suddenly stood straight, stiff up.  Margaret started to her feet,—­for she thought, by the working of his face, he was going into convulsions.  Mr. Hale looked at her dismayed.  At last Higgins found words: 

‘Man!  I could fell yo’ to the ground for tempting me.  Whatten business have yo’ to try me wi’ your doubts?  Think o’ her lying theere, after the life hoo’s led and think then how yo’d deny me the one sole comfort left—­that there is a God, and that He set her her life.  I dunnot believe she’ll ever live again,’ said he, sitting down, and drearily going on, as if to the unsympathising fire.  ’I dunnot believe in any other life than this, in which she dreed such trouble, and had such never-ending care; and I cannot bear to think it were all a set o’ chances, that might ha’ been altered wi’ a breath o’ wind.  There’s many a time when I’ve thought I didna believe in God, but I’ve never put it fair out before me in words, as many men do.  I may ha’ laughed at those who did, to brave it out like—­but I have looked round at after, to see if He heard me, if so be there was a He; but to-day, when I’m left desolate, I wunnot listen to yo’ wi’ yo’r questions, and yo’r doubts.  There’s but one thing steady and quiet i’ all this reeling world, and, reason or no reason, I’ll cling to that.  It’s a’ very well for happy folk’——­

Margaret touched his arm very softly.  She had not spoken before, nor had he heard her rise.

’Nicholas, we do not want to reason; you misunderstand my father.  We do not reason—­we believe; and so do you.  It is the one sole comfort in such times.’

He turned round and caught her hand.  ’Ay! it is, it is—­(brushing away the tears with the back of his hand).—­’But yo’ know, she’s lying dead at home and I’m welly dazed wi’ sorrow, and at times I hardly know what I’m saying.  It’s as if speeches folk ha’ made—­clever and smart things as I’ve thought at the time—­come up now my heart’s welly brossen.  Th’ strike’s failed as well; dun yo’ know that, miss?  I were coming whoam to ask her, like a beggar as I am, for a bit o’ comfort i’ that trouble; and I were knocked down by one who telled me she were dead—­just dead That were all; but that were enough for me.