“Rubbish! What does God care about my buttons?” “He’s pleased, just as I like your giving me birds’ eggs.” “But I didn’t give my buttons—they were snatched from me—through that, beastly old Mawhood.” “But Elder Mawhood knows what God wants.” “Let him cut off his own nose and not go smelling into everybody’s business. The other day he made poor old Sister Tarbox get riddy of her cat.” “That was kindness, because it had to be shut up alone all Sunday while she was at chapel.” “I believe it was only to make more rats for him to kill.” “That’s not true, Will. You know Sister Tarbox is too poor to have her cottage cleared.” “Well, let him look after his rats and cats—not me.” “An elder must do his duty.” “I hate elders and deacons and hymn-books. Yah! I’m done with religion, thank God.” “Oh, Will, you mustn’t speak like that!” “Fancy stewing in chapel in weather like this!” “Isn’t this just the weather to thank God for?” “No—it’s all silliness.” “Oh, Will!” “Yes, it is! You ask Brother Bundock—I don’t mean old Mr. Bundock. I asked him once who wrote our hymn-book and he said, ‘’Twixt you and I, the village idiot!’” “You are talking wickedly, Will”—there were tears in the voice now. “You mustn’t run away, that’s more wicked.” “Oh—I was an idiot myself to tell you. You are going to peach on me, I suppose.” “Peach?” “Tell your grandfather about my running away.” “Not if you don’t do it.” “But I shall do it! And you promised to keep the secret. To tell would be more wicked than me.” “I won’t tell, but you mustn’t go.” “I must. Swear not to betray me. Kiss my hymn-book.” It was with some soothed sense of restored sanctities that she had pressed her lips to the holy cover—she still remembered its smell and taste, salted with a tear of her own—but what a fresh and mightier shock, that throwing of the book into the bushes! “Stop! Stop!” She heard the little girl’s horror-struck cry over the years; remembered how, as he laughed and drove on furiously with her, the phrase “drive like the devil” had come to her mind, charged for the first time with meaning. Wilful boy had had his way: he had escaped from England and even—despite his diabolism—by the aid of the ninepence she had insisted on bringing down from her money-box while he waited trustfully outside her grandfather’s domain. But she had not responded in kind to the lordly kiss he had blown her as he drove off to America. “Good-bye, little Jinny!” “Good-bye, Will. Say your prayers!” “Not me!” “Then I shall pray for you!” When the hue and cry was out, and bellmen were busy with his carroty head and velvet jacket with the buttons cut off, little Jinny had also gone a-hunting—but for the outraged hymn-book. It lay now still hidden in a drawer—the one secret of her life—unmentioned even when by the bulky clue of the horse and cart the fugitive had been traced, as he designed.