"I'll partlet thee, thou rogue! I'll learn thee to dirt clean gear, and make work for thy mother! If ever in all my born days I saw a worser lad--" The door was darkened. Collet looked up, and beheld the parish priest. Her hold of Silas at once relaxed--a fact of which that lively gentleman was not slow to take advantage--and she dropped a courtesy, not very heartfelt, as the Reverend Philip Bastian made his way into the cottage. Nicholas gave a pull to his forelock, while Collet, bringing forward a chair, which she dusted with her apron, dismissed Penuel with a look. The priest's face meant business. He sat down, leaned both hands on his gold-headed cane, and took a deliberate look at both Nicholas and Collet before he said a word beyond the bare "Good even." After waiting long enough to excite considerable uneasiness in their minds, he inquired in dulcet tones-- "What have you to say to me, my children?" It was the woman who answered. "Please you. Father, we've nought to say, not in especial, without to hope you fare well this fine even." "Indeed!--and how be you faring?" "Right well, an't like you, Father, saving some few pains in my bones, such as I oft have of a washing-day." "And how is it with thy soul, daughter?" "I lack not your help therein, I thank you," said Collet somewhat spiritedly. "Do you not so? I pray you, where have you stood in the church since last May, that never once have I, looking from the altar, seen your faces therein? Methinks you must have found new standing-room, behind the rood-screen, or maybe within the font," suggested the priest satirically. "Wit you that this is ever the beginning of heresy? Have you heard what has befallen your landlord's wife, Mistress Benden? Doubtless she thought her good name and repute should serve her in this case. Look you, they have not saved her. She lieth this night in Canterbury Gaol, whither you may come belike, an' you have not a care, and some of your neighbours with you. Moreover, your dues be not fully paid--" "Sir," replied Nicholas Pardue, "I do knowledge myself behind in that matter, and under your good leave, I had waited on you ere the week were out. A labouring man, with a great store of children, hath not alway money to his hand when it most list him to pay the same." "So far, well," answered the priest more amiably. "I will tarry a time, trusting you shall in other ways return to your duty. God give you a good even!" And with seven shillings more in his pocket than when he entered, the Rev. Philip Bastian went his way. Nicholas and Collet looked at each other with some concern. "We've but barely 'scaped!" said the latter. "What do we now, Nick? Wilt go to church o' Sunday?" "No," said Nicholas quietly. "Shall I go without thee, to peace him like?" "Not by my good-will thereto." "Then what do we?" "What we have hitherto done. Serve God, and keep ourselves from idols."