The preacher would have taken well-nigh any counsel in his present shiftlessness of mind. The withered hag, glowering across the peat-smoke at him, seemed to be preaching a new, an inspired, gospel. Her words smacked more of the Old Testament, which he loved, than of the New, which in his wilder moods he only tolerated. Slowly he got up from the table and went to the door. "Lad, I've summat to ask of thee afore tha goes," said Mother Strangeways, shifting her voice to a whine. Gabriel turned and glared at her, but said no word. "Tha knows how th' owd clock goes a-wobbling, wobbling, wobbling, hour in an' hour out? Well, it's getten past all; it dithers fit to drive a body dizzy-crazy, an' my lad Joe, th' gaumless wastrel, willun't bring me a two or three screw-nails--nobbut a two or three screw-nails; that's all I'm fashed for, an' he willun't bring 'em--an' me that hes reared him fro' being a babby. Tha'll happen along wi' th' screw-nails, willun't tha, lad, sooin as tha's done wi' Griff Lummax?" But Gabriel, before she had finished her appeal, was out of the door and off across the heather towards Gorsthwaite Hall. Now that he had a purpose, he could see the moor as he had known it from boyhood; he knew his way. Kate was going in at the door of Gorsthwaite as he came up. She turned and smiled a welcome on him. "It's long since you've been here, Mr. Hirst," she said. "Will you come in and wait for Griff? He has gone to the Manor for the afternoon." The preacher stood dumbfounded. He had had the one simple plan in his head, and this deviation from the settled order of things left him witless. Kate decided that he had been wrestling with the devil on an empty stomach, and pitied him. "I--I'll not come in," he stammered at last. "I'll--walk back--to Marshcotes. I may meet him on the way." "I can't promise that you will. Sometimes he stays late--but you'll find him at the Manor, if you are anxious to see him." "Yes, I'm anxious--anxious; that is just it," he muttered. The preacher turned and set off towards the village. He passed a wide-lipped tarn that lay in the valley between Gorsthwaite and Marshcotes Moor, and stared at its sulky waters; he hesitated awhile, then passed on. Another mile brought him to a disused shaft--Whins Quarry, it was called--and a look that was almost of joy came into his face as he peered over the fifty feet of rock-face, down to the pool that swallowed up the old cart-track on the far side. "I can't face other folk--his mother, say. I'll just wait here till he comes," muttered Gabriel.