"Trouble! Nothin' of the sort. Besides, I be goin' to 'ave one myzelf.

Ef you'll jist wait two or three minits 't 'll be ready. There, you go and set in the armchair there, while I d' git et."

For the first time he realised that he was tired. He accepted the woman's invitation, and sat down. How quiet and peaceful everything was!

Not a sound save the ticking of the eight-day clock and the kettle singing on the glowing embers. A little later Mrs. Pethick laid a snowy cloth on the end of the table nearest Leicester, and then brought a loaf of white bread and a basin of clotted cream.

"There now," she said presently, "draw yer cheer up and 'ave some tay; 't 'll be better than cloggy stuff like milk on a 'ot day like this."

It did not seem strange that this woman should treat him so kindly. He knew that her hospitality was nothing uncommon in rural districts.

Nevertheless, he felt thankful to her. The sight of her face did him good.

"Es the tay to yer likin', then?" she asked.

"It is beautiful tea," he replied. "As for your Devonshire cream, 'tis delicious."

"I'm glad you like 'et, but I'd allays call et Cornish craim. I've lived 'ere now better'n twenty 'ear, but I can never make out that I bean't in Cornwall. I caan't fer sure. I was raired there, you zee. 'Ave 'ee ever bin to Cornwall then, zur, maakin' so bowld?"

"Never."

"Then you shud, zur. Some people do like Devonshire best, but I've never seed nothin' in Devonshire so purty as Truro revver. Besides, I do miss the Cornish revivals, I do."

"Revivals?"

"Iss; I was converted at a revival, I was. Not but wot we do 'ave good meetin's over to the Brianite Chapel, but ted'n like Cornwall. Be you a perfessor yerself then, sur?"

"A professor?--what of?"

"Of religion, zur. Be 'ee a perfessin' Christian?"

"I'm afraid not," he replied.

"Ah," she said, "I thot I ded'n see the joy of the Lord in yer eyes."

Try as he would, he could not help laughing. But there was nothing derisive in his laughter. The woman was too sincere.

"I am afraid I've seen too much of the devil to have the joy of the Lord," he replied.

"Aw, my deear," she said, dropping into the Cornish vernacular, "you do mind me of a gen'l'man wot called 'ere years and years agone, afore my 'usband and my pore dear boy died."

"Oh," said Leicester, "what gentleman?"

"Not that you be anything like en," a.s.sured Mrs. Pethick. "Aw, my deear, 'ee was as pale as a ghost, and as thin as a coot, 'ee was. Not but wot 'ee was a fine 'an'some gen'leman, for oal that. 'Twas, lev me zee, six years agone this last spring. Aw, 'ee ded talk funny, he ded. He zed 'ee loved the devil, 'ee ded, and towld me 'ow the devil tempted un to go to Crazzick pool, and sink, and sink, and sink, and thus find paice."

"And what did you say to him?"

"I towld un that 'ee'd never find no paice that way. Ther's no paice 'cept in the dear Lord. I'm sorry you be'ant a perfessin' Christian, sur."

It did not seem strange to Leicester that she should talk in this way.

It seemed natural to her. Besides, in the rural parts of Cornwall and Devonshire, religion is the main topic of conversation among those who love the little roadside chapels.

"Well, as I was a-sayin'," she went on, "this gen'l'man ded zay funny things. He zed 'ee'd nuther father, nor mawther, nor wife, nor sweetheart, and that he ded'n care nothin' 'bout livin'. And then all ov a sudden he axed me wot I wud do ef I wos in his plaace."

"And what did you tell him?" asked Leicester.

"I towld 'im that he must seek the Lord, and fight the devil. Ther's no other way fer et, sur."

"And did he, do you think?"

"I'm feard not, sur. For afterwards it comed to me who he was. I d'

believe he was the gen'leman who tried to git into Parliament for Taviton. I s'pose 'ee wos a awful character. He decaived 'is young laady, he was a ter'ble drunkard, and then afterwards, he thrawed hisself in the revver up to London. 'Twa'sn' he that ded conquer the devil, but the devil conquered he. Ah well, the poor thing es ded now ef 'twas 'ee; 'tes a sad pity."

"And do you believe if he'd sought the Lord, as you call it, that he would have conquered the devil?"

"I doan't believe, sur, I'm sure."

Again Leicester became interested in the country-woman's simple talk.

There was such a ring of sincerity in her voice, that he could not but be respectful.

"Mrs. Pethick," he said, "I've been in many countries, and known many religions, but I don't find that the devil is easily killed."

"The Lord Jesus can do et, sur."

"How do you know?"

"Knaw, sur! I do knaw the difference in my heart before I was converted, and after. Besides, there was Aaron Goudge; you doan't know Aaron Goudge, I s'poase?"

"No, I don't know him."

"Well, ef you do look out of the winder you can zee his 'ouse. Aaron was a ter'ble character, 'ee was. He killed his wife, 'ee ded. Ah, poor critter, she ded live a life! Not as you may say oal to wance he ded'n kill her, but little by little. She jist faaded away, she ded. Aaron was a poacher too, and used to stail things. He was allays a-gittin' drunk and fightin'. He was a terror to the parish, he was. Aw, many es the time I've talked to un, bit 'twas oal no use. Grace ded'n tich his heart, so to spaik. Then after his poor wife died, his maid got into trouble, and ef there wos wawn thing in life Aaron cared 'bout, 'twas this maid, and the man that ruined her was Bill Liddicoat, Squire Hendy's gamekeeper. Nothin' could be proved 'gin un, and then, to maake matters wuss, Bill Liddicoat catched Aaron poachin', and he wos put to gaol. When Aaron comed out ov gaol, I spoke to un, and tried to do un good. 'Mrs. Pethick,' ses 'ee, 'I've sould myself to the devil to do fer Bill Liddicoat. I've offered un my soul, ef 'ee'll 'elp me, and 'ee've promised to. And I tell 'ee what, I'll never rest till I've paid out Bill Liddicoat, ef I've got to swing fer it, and ef I've got to go to h.e.l.l for it, I'll be square with un.' 'But what good'll that do 'ee?'

ses I. ''Tes oal I've got to live fer now,' ses 'ee, 'and I b'leeve I cud be 'appy ef I cud pay en out. And I will too, by G.o.d, I will!' I tried to raison weth un, but 'twas no use. You cud zee murder in 'is eyes, as he walked the roads. Then wawn mornin', we 'eard 'ow Bill Liddicoat was vound up in Ternouth woods in a pool of blood. He wad'n dead, but the doctors ded'n give much 'ope ov his life. Aaron was tooked up, and tried, but nothin' could be proved agin him. He proved wot is called a allyby--that es, he made out that he was zum plaace else that very night."

Leicester listened eagerly to the story.

"And was he ever found out?" he asked.

"No, as you may zay he wos never vound out. But aw, my deear, wot a way 'ee wos in. You never seed such a ghastly faace as 'ee 'ad. Ef ever the devil 'aunted a man, it was Aaron. He went as thin and pale as a ghoast.

In a way he 'ad 'is rights in payin' out Bill Liddicoat, but he suffered the torments of the lost. He wudden tell nothin' and nothin' cud be proved agin un, but 'ee wos the most miserable man that ever walked the earth. Wawn day I spoked to un, but 'ee wudden zay nothin,' but 'The devil's a 'ard maaster, Mrs. Pethick.' I axed un to come to chapel, but he wudden come. Night after night I wrastled in prayer fur un, but 'ee wad'n altered. He jist went round like a man weth a 'alter round 'is neck. I've been the cla.s.s laider up to the Bible Christian Chapel for a long time, and one night we zed as 'ow we would agree to pray fer Aaron, and we ded. For two weeks we prayed, and then wawn Sunday night Aaron comed to chapel. The praicher ded'n come that night, so we turned the sarvice into a prayer-meetin'. Oa, Aaron was convicted of sin, but 'ee wudden yield for a long while; but after a time he got 'pon his knees, and began to cry, 'G.o.d be merciful to me, a sinner.' But he ded'n git no liberty. 'Wy caan't I git paice?' he cried. So I said, 'Ef we repent ov our sins, He is faithful and just to fergive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.' 'Wot do 'ee main by repent?' ses 'ee. 'Be sorry fer all the wrong you've done,' I sed; 'make yer paice with man and G.o.d, and fergive everybody, and then trust in the mercy of the Lord for salvation.' 'Wot! fergive Bill Liddicoat?' he zed; 'never!' 'But you've paid un out,' I zed; 'surely you can fergive un now.' ''Ow do you knaw I've paid un out?' he asked. 'The Lord tould me,' I said. For a long time he was hardened, then he said, 'Lord, ef You'll fergive me, I'll fergive Bill Liddicoat.' And still 'ee ded'n git no paice. At this my faith was a bit shaken; then it comed to me that I hadn't quoted the Scripture right, so I repeated et agean. 'Ef we confess our sins,' I sed. 'Confess wot?' ses 'ee. 'Confess wot you've done to Bill Liddicoat, and ax un to forgive 'ee,' I sed. 'Wot, ax Bill Liddicoat to forgive me?' he said; 'wot, 'ee that 'ave ruined my little maid? I'll burn in h.e.l.l first.' 'If ye fergive not men their trespa.s.ses, neither will your Heavenly Father forgive your trespa.s.ses,' I said. 'Is that in the Bible?' ses 'ee. 'Our dear Lord said it Himself,' I replied. Oh, the struggle was terrible. 'I've bin in h.e.l.l for weeks,' ses 'ee, 'ever since I tried to kill Bill. I thought ef I 'ad my revenge I should be 'appy, but I was in h.e.l.l.' Then oal of a sudden he cried out, 'Lord, ef You'll give paice, ef You'll make a new man ov me, I'll do wotever You want me to. I'll forgive Bill Liddicoat, I'll ax un to forgive me, I'll confess that I tried to kill un. 'Tes ter'ble 'ard, but I'll do et.'"

Mrs. Pethick stopped in her recital, and looked at the eager face of the man who was watching her.

"Would you believe et, sur, his faace changed in a moment. He seemed to become like a little child. Then he got on his feet, and praised the Lord. That was five years agone, and Aaron Goudge is a local preacher now, and the happiest man in the parish. As for Bill Liddicoat, well, sur, he got better, and now Aaron's maid is his wife. Tha's wot the dear Lord Jesus can do fer a man, sur."

Leicester made no reply. He tried to think of something mocking to say, but the words would not come. It seemed to be impossible to call up a sneer in the face of the woman's simple faith.

"Plaise forgive me, sur, for talkin' like this. But I was prayin' when I heerd you knock; besides, in a way you do make me think of the poor gen'l'man that comed 'ere years agone, and wot throwed 'isself into the revver afterwards. As I sed to 'ee, ef we doan't conquer the devil, 'ee'll conquer we. You be'ant offended, be 'ee, sur?"

"Offended? Certainly not." He tried to laugh, but somehow the laugh died on his lips. "But you see, it's--it's a long time since I heard any one talk like this."

"Es et, sur? Ah, but the dear Loard Jesus es oal I've got to live for now. Four years ago my 'usband died, and then my boy was killed in the war. I felt 'ard and bitter for a little time. But 'tes oal right, I shall meet them again. They will not come to me, but I shall go to them."