rd cried in his heart there was no God.

Here we are faced with a curious parallel, offered within the limits of
this narrative. As the old labourer, Blee, had arrived at the same
conclusion, then modified it and returned to a creed in the light of
subsequent events, so now Will had found himself, on the evening of his
child's funeral, with fresh interests aroused and recent convictions
shaken. An incipient negation of Deity, built upon the trumpery basis of
his personal misfortunes, was almost shattered within the week that saw
its first existence. A mystery developed in his path, and startling
incidents awoke a new train of credulity akin to that already manifested
over the ancient cross. The man's uneven mind was tossed from one
extreme of opinion to the other, and that element of superstition, from
which no untutored intellect in the lap of Nature is free, now found
fresh food and put forth a strong root within him.

Returning home, Will approached Phoebe with a purpose to detail the sad,
short scene in Chagford churchyard, but his voice rendered her
hysterical, so he left her with his mother, put on his working clothes,
and wandered out into the farmyard. Presently he found himself idly
regarding a new gate-post: that which Martin Grimbal formerly brought
and left hard by the farm. Ted Chown had occupied himself in erecting it
during the morning.

The spectacle reminded Will of another, and he lifted his eyes to the
cross on the undulation spread before him. As he did so some object
appeared to flutter out of sight not far above it, among the rocks and
loose 'clatters' beneath the summit of the tor. This incident did not
hold Will's mind, but, prompted to motion, restless, and in the power of
dark thoughts, he wandered up the Moor, tramped through the heather, and
unwittingly passed within a yard of the monument he had raised upon the
hill. He stood a moment and looked at the cross, then cursed and spat
upon it. The action spoke definitely of a mental chaos unexampled in one
who, until that time, had never lacked abundant self-respect. His deed
done, it struck Will Blanchard like a blow; he marvelled bitterly at
himself, he knew such an act was pitiful, and remembered that the brain
responsible for it was his own. Then he clenched his hands and turned
away, and stood and stared out over the world.

A wild, south-west wind blew, and fitful rain-storms sped separately
across the waste. Over the horizon clouds mass