When Gabriel Hirst mounted the pulpit of Ebenezer chapel that evening, he felt none of the old red-hot lava of damnation rising to his lips; he was strangely calm, and at peace with this world and the next; the thought of little children was running, like a silver thread, through every working of his mind. Decent food and a couple of glasses of honest wine had much to do with it; re-action after his two wild extremes of the morning counted for a good deal; but more powerful than either had been those two hours he spent at Marshcotes Manor, under the influence of Griff's cheery optimism and Mrs. Lomax's sane, practical grip of things. He was just about to give out his text when there was a clatter of hob-nailed boots on the stone floor, and he saw old Binns, who was caretaker of the little chapel, showing Greta Rotherson into a seat near the pulpit. For one moment his heart leaped into his mouth, and he thought that it would be impossible to get the words out; but he looked at Greta steadily, and his passion of the morning was gone, and he wondered that the girl's presence should seem to round off some hitherto incomplete ideas. As Griff had prophesied, he preached better than he had ever done in his life: there was no wild denunciation, no fever-heat of appeal, as in other sermons; it was all clear, and crisp, and kindly; above all, it was convincing. Greta Rotherson paused now and then, on her way out of chapel, to hear the scattered comments of the villagers. Some were glad of the glimpse which had been given them of a better life than their daily round of hardness and care afforded. Others did not like their preacher under his new aspect; they had too long been supplied with strong stuff to descend willingly to fare on which only women and children could be expected to thrive. "Well, I'm saying that Gabriel Hirst is noan th' man he war this morning," said one. "He's like as he's lost all fire; not a word o' warm hell-fire did he gie us, an' that's noan like Gabriel." "Thee hod thy whisht for a while," broke in another. "He war powerful moved this morning, an' it doan't stan' to reason 'at th' Sperrit will wark i' a man fro' morn to neet. Let him bide; he'll ingather some thunder o' th' Lord afore another week comes round." "Ay, but summat hes come to Gabriel sin' th' morning," said an old woman, with a dry laugh. "I see'd him forebye th' owd corn-mill after his preaching so fine and large about th' lusts o' t' flesh. Miller Rotherson's daughter--ye marked her i' chapel mebbe, to-neet?--war alongside of him, and he war just gaäping an' gaäping at her doll's face of a woman. Gabriel is noan th' man he war, to my thinking."