the hard looks of the men, who seemed to have their eyes no more filled with the sight of the Sabbath morning than if they had been dumb oxen that never looked up to the sky, I felt a great movement in my soul, and I trembled as if I was shaken by a strong spirit entering into my weak body.  And I went to where the little flock of people was gathered together, and stepped on the low wall that was built against the green hillside, and I spoke the words that were given to me abundantly.  And they all came round me out of all the cottages, and many wept over their sins, and have since been joined to the Lord.  That was the beginning of my preaching, sir, and I’ve preached ever since.”

Dinah had let her work fall during this narrative, which she uttered in her usual simple way, but with that sincere articulate, thrilling treble by which she always mastered her audience.  She stooped now to gather up her sewing, and then went on with it as before.  Mr. Irwine was deeply interested.  He said to himself, “He must be a miserable prig who would act the pedagogue here:  one might as well go and lecture the trees for growing in their own shape.”

“And you never feel any embarrassment from the sense of your youth—­that you are a lovely young woman on whom men’s eyes are fixed?” he said aloud.

“No, I’ve no room for such feelings, and I don’t believe the people ever take notice about that.  I think, sir, when God makes His presence felt through us, we are like the burning bush:  Moses never took any heed what sort of bush it was—­he only saw the brightness of the Lord.  I’ve preached to as rough ignorant people as can be in the villages about Snowfield—­men that looked very hard and wild—­but they never said an uncivil word to me, and often thanked me kindly as they made way for me to pass through the midst of them.”

“That I can believe—­that I can well believe,” said Mr. Irwine, emphatically.  “And what did you think of your hearers last night, now?  Did you find them quiet and attentive?”

“Very quiet, sir, but I saw no signs of any great work upon them, except in a young girl named Bessy Cranage, towards whom my heart yearned greatly, when my eyes first fell on her blooming youth, given up to folly and vanity.  I had some private talk and prayer with her afterwards, and I trust her heart is touched.  But I’ve noticed that in these villages where the people lead a quiet life among the green pastures and the still waters, tilling the ground and tending the cattle, there’s a strange deadness to the Word, as different as can be from the great towns, like Leeds, where I once went to visit a holy woman who preaches there.  It’s wonderful how rich is the harvest of souls up those high-walled streets, where you seemed to walk as in a prison-yard, and the ear is deafened with the sounds of worldly toil.  I think maybe it is because the promise is sweeter when this life is so dark and weary, and the soul gets more hungry when the body is ill at ease.”