"You sez fine, Mr. Netlips,--you sez fine," he observed respectfully. "Not that I altogether understands ye, but that's onny my want of book-larnin' and not spellin' through the dictionary as I oughter when I was a youngster. Howsomever I makes bold to guess wot you're drivin' at and I dessay you may be right. But I'm fair bound to own that if it worn't for Mr. Walden, I shouldn't be found in church o' Sundays neither, but lyin' flat on my back in a field wi' my face turned up to the sun, a-thinkin' of the goodness o' God, and hopin' He'd put a hand out to 'elp make the crops grow as they should do. Onny Passon he be a rare good man, and he do speak to the 'art of ye so wise-like and quiet, and that's why I goes to hear him and sez the prayers wot's writ for me to say and doos as he asks me to do. But if I'd been unfort'nit enough to live in the parish of Badsworth under that old liar Leveson, I'd a put my fist in his jelly face 'fore I'd a listened to a word he had to say! Them's my sentiments, mates!--and you can read 'em how you like, Mr. Netlips. God's in heaven we know,--but there's onny churches on earth, an' we 'as to make sure whether there's men or devils inside of 'em 'fore we goes kneelin' and grubbin' in front of 'uman idols--Good-night t'ye!" With these somewhat disjointed remarks Farmer Thorpe strode out of the tap-room, whistling loudly to his dog as he reached the door. The heavy tramp of his departing feet echoed along the outside lane and died away, and Roger Buggins, glancing at the sheep-faced clock in the bar, opined that it was 'near closin' hour.' All the company rose and began to take their leave. "Church or no church, Miss Vancourt's a real lady!" declared Dan Bidley emphatically--"She may have her reasons, an' good ones too, for not attending service, but she ain't no heathen, I'm sartin' sure o' that." "You cannot argumentarially be sure of what you do not know," said Mr. Netlips, with a tight smile, buttoning on his overcoat--"A heathen is a proscription of the law, and cannot enjoy the rights of the commons." Dan stared. "There ain't no proscription of the law in stayin' away from church," he said--"Nobody's bound to go. Lords nor commons can't compel us." Mr. Netlips shook his head and frowned darkly, with the air of one who could unveil a great mystery if he chose. "Compulsion is a legal community," he said--"And while powerless to bring affluence to the Christian conscience, it culminates in the citizenship of the heathen. Miss Vancourt, as her father's daughter, should be represented by the baptized spirit, and not by the afflatus of the ungenerate! Good-night!" Still puckering his brow into lines of mysterious suggestiveness, the learned Netlips went his way, Roger Buggins gazing after him admiringly. "That man's reg'lar lost down 'ere,"--he observed--"He oughter ha' been in Parliament."