s desk before the first hymn was announced, Amos
cried in loud tones:

'Aw seed her mysel donce i' th' garden, on God's good Sunday morn.
I seed her donce like that brazened (impudent) wench did afore
King Herod, him up i' his study-winder skennin' at her when he
ought to ha' bin sayin' o' his prayers. An' aw yerd her sing some
mak' o' stuff abaat luv, and sich like rubbidge. What sort o' a
wife dun yo' co that? G' me a lass as can strike up _Hepzibah_,
and mak' a prayer. It's all o' a piece--short weight i' doctrin',
and falderdals i' wives.'

And as Amos finished the delivery of this sentiment, and held the
open hymn-book in his hand, he reached over to administer a blow
on the ears of a child who was peeping through the window at a
little bird trilling joyously on the deep-splayed sill outside.

During the pause between the close of Sunday-school and the
commencement of morning service, congregation and scholars
darkened the chapel yard in gossiping groups, each on the tiptoe
of curiosity to catch a first glimpse of the bride of their
pastor. All eyes were turned towards the crown of the hill which
led up from the manse, and on which Mr. Penrose and his wife would
first be seen. More than once an approaching couple were mistaken
for them, and more than once disappointment darkened the faces of
the waiting folk. With some of the older members weariness
overcame curiosity, and they entered the doors, through which came
the sound of instruments in process of tuning, while Amos
Entwistle, cuffing and driving the younger scholars into the
chapel, upbraided the elder ones by asking them 'if th' parson
were the only chap as hed ever getten wed?'

At last the well-known form of the preacher was silhouetted on the
brow of the hill, and by his side the wife whose advent had
created such a prejudice and distaste, unknown though she was,
among these moorland folks. The murmur of announcement ran round,
and within, as well as without, all knew 'th' parson's wife wor
amang 'em.'

As the couple entered the chapel yard the people made way,
ungraciously somewhat, and shot the young bride through and
through with cruel stares. Mr. Penrose greeted his congregation
with a succession of nervous nods, jerky and strained, his wife
keeping her eyes fixed on the gravestones over which she was led
to the chapel doors.

'Sithee! hoo's getten her yers pierced,' said a loudly-dressed
girl, a weaver at the factory in the vale.

'Yi; a