d out by such a shrieking storm of discord, one of the three
Quakers--a little man with quick eyes and nervous lips--made his way
through the crowd to where the blacksmith stood at the outskirts of
it. Garth propped his back against the wall of the inn and laughed
hysterically at the preacher's remonstrance: "Woe to thee and such as
thee when God's love passes away from thee."

Garth replied with a mocking blasphemy too terrible for record. He
repeated it, shouted it, screamed it.

In sheer horror the Quaker dropped on his knees in front of the
blacksmith and muttered a prayer that was almost inaudible:--

"God grant that the seven devils, yea seven times seven, may come out
of him!"

Then Garth was silent for a moment.

"I knew such a one as thou art five years ago," said the Quaker; "and
where thinkest thou he died?"

"Where?" said Garth, with a drunken hiccup.

"But he was a saved man at last--saved by the light with which Christ
enlightened all men--saved--"

"Where?" repeated Garth, with a hideous imprecation.

"On the gallows--he had killed his own father--he was--"

"Curse you! Curse you on earth and in hell!"

The people who had crowded round held their hands to their ears to
shut out the fearful blasphemies. Garth, sobered somewhat by rage
which was no longer assumed but real, pushed them aside and strode
down the lane.

Rotha turned away from the crowd and walked towards Shoulthwaite.
Before her, at fifty paces, the blacksmith tramped doggedly on, with
head towards the ground. Drunk, mad, devilish as at this moment he
might be, Rotha felt an impulse to overtake him. She knew not what
power prompted her, or what idea or what hope. Never before had she
felt an instinct drawing her to this man. Yet she wished to speak with
him now. Would she had done so! Would she had done so--not for his
sake or yet for hers--but now, even now, while the impieties were hot
on his burning lips!

Rotha ran a step or two and stopped. Garth shambled sullenly on. He
never lifted his eyes to the sky.

When he reached his home he threw himself on the skemmel drawn up to
the hearth. He was sober now. His mother had been taking her Sunday
afternoon's sleep on the settle, which stood at one side of the
kitchen. His noisy entrance awoke her. He broke the peat with the
peat-stick and kicked it into the fire.

"What's come ower thee?" said Mrs. Garth, opening her eyes and
yawning.

"What's come over you more like?" grow