That, you see, was my father's way of talking. He didn't mean anything
by it. But the words just flowed naturally from him, and he could no
more help abusing me, or, indeed, any of his men, than taking a snooze
when sleepy in the afternoon.

The curate, who knew that barking keeps the teeth open and so prevents
biting, simply laughed and said, "Well, come along, Joe! You are under
my care and authority for this day, at any rate."

As for me, I was glad enough. For, but for Elsie, and the thought of
my going to college in the late autumn, I liked Mr. Ablethorpe very
well, as, for that matter, did nearly every one who knew him--except
his vicar, who did not appreciate a young man being so popular;
"stealing the hearts of his congregation from him," as he expressed it.

I was still gladder, because I knew that that afternoon there was not
the least chance of seeing Elsie. She had gone up to read Latin and
piles of hard books with Miss Martha Mustard, the dominie's sister, who
was said to be far more learned even than he. At any rate, though not
what you would call "honeysuckle sweet," she had at least a far better
temper.

The curate and I set out. It was the selfsame road that Elsie and I
had taken earlier in the year, on the May morning when we were the
first to look inside poor Harry Foster's blood-stained mail cart.

But now the leaves were turning and drying, already brown at the edges,
and splotched with yellow and green along the webbing inside. Soon our
feet were on the heather, and I watched the curate to see if he would
turn his head to take a look across at the little creeper-hidden cot at
the Bridge End, where Elsie was not. But either he was on his guard,
or he was as well aware as I myself of her absence. At any rate he
never turned his head, but swung along with a jolly hillman's stride
which it took me all my pith and length of limb to keep pace with.

And as we went he improved the occasion. Not like a common minister,
who asks you if you have been a good boy and always tell the truth.
Silly questions, as if the man had never been a boy himself!

But the curate said: "Now, look here, you are getting out of the way of
going to church, just because of your father's silly quarrel with the
vicar of your parish. That may be well enough for your father. He is
a grown man, and can judge about these things as well as you or I. But
it is different with a young fellow. He gets into bad habits.