‘Well, you needn’t be troubled; it isn’t necessary for the higher class of mind to be religious--they have so much common-sense that they can risk playing with fire.’ ‘That hits me exactly.’ ‘In fact, a man I know, who always had no other god but “Me;” and devoutly loved his neighbour’s wife, says now that believing is a mistake.’ ‘Well, to be sure! However, believing in God is a mistake made by very few people, after all.’ ‘A true remark.’ ‘Not one Christian in our parish would walk half a mile in a rain like this to know whether the Scripture had concluded him under sin or grace.’ ‘Nor in mine.’ ‘Ah, you may depend upon it they’ll do away wi’ Goddymity altogether afore long, although we’ve had him over us so many years.’ ‘There’s no knowing.’ ‘And I suppose the Queen ‘ill be done away wi’ then. A pretty concern that’ll be! Nobody’s head to put on your letters; and then your honest man who do pay his penny will never be known from your scamp who don’t. O, ‘tis a nation!’ ‘Warm the cockles of your heart, however. Here’s the bottle waiting.’ ‘I’ll oblige you, my friend.’ The drinking was repeated. The postman grew livelier as he went on, and at length favoured the steward with a song, Manston himself joining in the chorus. ‘He flung his mallet against the wall, Said, “The Lord make churches and chapels to fall, And there’ll be work for tradesmen all!” When Joan’s ale was new, My boys, When Joan’s ale was new.’ ‘You understand, friend,’ the postman added, ‘I was originally a mason by trade: no offence to you if you be a parson?’ ‘None at all,’ said Manston. The rain now came down heavily, but they pursued their path with alacrity, the produce of the several fields between which the lane wound its way being indicated by the peculiar character of the sound emitted by the falling drops. Sometimes a soaking hiss proclaimed that they were passing by a pasture, then a patter would show that the rain fell upon some large-leafed root crop, then a paddling plash announced the naked arable, the low sound of the wind in their ears rising and falling with each pace they took. Besides the small private bags of the county families, which were all locked, the postman bore the large general budget for the remaining inhabitants along his beat. At each village or hamlet they came to, the postman searched for the packet of letters destined for that place, and thrust it into an ordinary letter-hole cut in the door of the receiver’s cottage--the village post-offices being mostly kept by old women who had not yet risen, though lights moving in other cottage windows showed that such people as carters, woodmen, and stablemen had long been stirring.