God's protection on
the household; but his prayer soon ceased to be a prayer. It broke
into ejaculations of praise--"Friends, I be too happy to ask for
anything--Glory, glory! The blood! The precious blood!
O deliverance! O streams of redemption running!" The farmer and his
wife began to chime in--"Hallelujah!" "Glory!" and Lizzie Pezzack to
sob. Taffy, kneeling before a kitchen chair, peeped between his
palms, and saw her shoulders heaving.

The Bryanite sprang to his feet, overturning the settle with a crash.
"Tid'n no use. I must skip! Who'll dance wi' me?"

He held out his hands to Mrs. Joll. She took them, and skipped once
shamefacedly. Lizzie, with flaming cheeks, pushed her aside.
"Leave me try, mis'ess; I shall die if I don't." She caught the
preacher's hands, and the two leapt about the kitchen. "I can dance
higher than mis'ess!" Farmer Joll looked on with a dazed face.
"Hallelujah!" "Amen!" he said at intervals, quite mechanically.
The pair stood under the bacon rack and began to whirl like
dervishes--hands clasped, toes together, bodies leaning back and
almost rigid. They whirled until Taffy's brain whirled with them.

With a louder sob Lizzie let go her hold and tottered back into a
chair, laughing hysterically. The Bryanite leaned against the table,
panting.

There was a long pause. Mrs. Joll took a napkin from the dresser and
fell to fanning the girl's face, then to slapping it briskly.
"Get up and lay the table," she commanded; "the preacher'll stay to
supper."

"Thank 'ee, ma'am, I don't care if I do," said he; and ten minutes
later they were all seated at supper and discussing the fall in wheat
in the most matter-of-fact voices. Only their faces twitched now and
again.

"I hear you had the preacher down to Joll's last night," said
Mendarva the Smith. "What'st think of en?"

"I can't make him out," was Taffy's colourless but truthful answer.

"He's a bellows of a man. I do hear he's heating up th' old Squire
Moyle's soul to knack an angel out of en. He'll find that a job and
a half. You mark my words, there'll be Dover over in your parish one
o' these days."

During work-hours Mendarva bestowed most of his talk on Taffy.
The Dane seldom opened his lips except to join in the anvil chorus--

"Here goes one--
Sing, sing, Johnny!
Here goes two--
Sing, Johnny, sing!
Whack'n till he's red,
Whack'n till he's dead,
And who