to the child. She saw how that hitherto she had
only believed she believed, and that now, when her soul was
touched in its nether deeps, she had never believed at all in the
creed which she had fought for and upheld with such bitterness.
There, in the twilight of that Sabbath evening, she uttered what,
to Rehoboth, would have been a terrible renunciation, just as a
lurid beam shot its level fire across the moors, and as the sun
went down, leaving her in the horror of a great darkness.

And then, in the gathering gloom, was heard the voice of the child
calling:

'Gronny! Gronny!'

'Well, mi lad, what is't?'

'Gronny, I don't believe i' th' hoile.'

'Bless thee, my darlin'--no more do I.'

'I durnd think as God ud send me where yo' an' mi dad wouldn't let
me go--would He, gronny?'

'Nowe, lad, He wouldn't, forsure.'

And then, lighting the lamp, and turning with the old superstition
to her Bible to see what the law and the testimony had to say as
she opened it at random, her eyes fell on the words: 'If ye, then,
being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, how
much more shall your Father which is in heaven give good things to
them that ask Him.'

That afternoon, when Matt and Miriam returned from Rehoboth, they
found old Deborah less than the little child she watched over; for
she, too, had not only become as a little child, but, as she said,
least among the little ones.

VII.

HOW MALACHI O' TH' MOUNT WON HIS WIFE.

'So yo' want to know haa aw geet hand o' my missus, dun yo', Mr.
Penrose? Well, if hoo'll nobbud be quiet while aw'm abaat it,
aw'll tell yo'.'

And so saying, Malachi drew his chair to the fire, and blew a
cloud of tobacco-smoke towards the rows of oat-cakes that hung on
the brade fleygh over his head.

'It's forty year sin' I furst wore shoe-leather i' Rehoboth, Mr.
Penrose.'

'Nay, lad, it's noan forty year whol Candlemas. It were February,
thaa knows, when thaa come; and it's nobbud October yet. An' thaa
didn't wear shoon noather, thaa wore clogs--clogs as big as boats,
Mr. Penrose; an' they co'd him Clitter-clatter for a nickname.
Hasto forgetten, Malachi?'

'Aw wish thaa wouldn't be so plaguey partic'lar, lass, an' let a
felley get on wi' his tale,' said Malachi to his wife. And then,
turning to Mr. Penrose, he continued: 'Aw were tryin' to say as it
were forty year sin' I come to Rehoboth.'

'Forty year come Candlemas, Malachi.'

'Yi, forty year c