‘Rare times, them was,’ said an old farmer, joining in the conversation. ‘I remember how we used to pelt them meetinger parsons with rotten eggs. It was rare fun to break their windows while they were preaching, and to frighten the women as they came out. One day we were going to burn the parson’s house down.’ ‘And why did you not?’ asked the surgeon. ‘Because the Rector’s wife was ill,’ was the reply, ‘and the Rector asked us not to make a noise near the house. But I was sorry we did not then finish the job outright. They’d all have gone. Says I, if you want to get rid of the wasps, burn their nests. I’ve no patience with a lot of hypocrites, professing to be better than other people.’ ‘Well, gentlemen,’ said the landlady’s niece, a privileged person, as she was both young and good-looking, ‘all I can say is, young Mr. Wentworth preached a capital sermon to-night. A better sermon I never heard. There was no reading out of a book. It was all life-like. There was no drawling or hesitation. He spoke out like a man.’ The aunt looked solemn. This would never do. The Spread Eagle had always supported Church and State, and she was not going to change at her time of life. It was too bad to find heresy in her own flesh and blood. ‘Well,’ said she, ‘of course I don’t go to meetin’, and I’m very sorry to hear what I’ve heard to-night.’ ‘Well, we will forgive the young lady,’ said the Rector condescendingly, with a familiar nod, ‘on condition that she does not do it again.’ ‘Agreed,’ said the surgeon. ‘I go to church,’ he continued, ‘because it’s respectable; because my father went there before me; because, if I did not, I should never be asked to dine at the Hall; because, as it is, I find it hard to make both ends meet, and should lose all my practice if I went to meeting.’ ‘Besides,’ added the Rector, ‘it is your duty to support the institutions of your country, and to set the people a good example. I am not much of a Churchman myself. I had rather have been a country squire, but my father said I must either take the family living or starve, so, as starving is not in my way, here I am.’ ‘And a better parson we don’t want,’ said the old farmer enthusiastically. ‘Well, I try to do my duty in the situation in which Providence has placed me,’ said the Rector, with a truly edifying air. ‘We knows that,’ said the farmer, ‘You’ve allus a bottle for a friend, and you give us short sermons, and when we want to get up a race or a bit of sport, you are always ready to lend us a helping hand, and that is more than the meetingers ever do. I hates ’em like p’ison. All their talk is of eddication and religion—good things in their way, but not to be overdone. My best ploughman can’t read a bit, and what good will larnin’ do him, I should like to know.’