’A buffleheaded sort of a chap,’ said Joyce, in a tone between shyness and disgust; ’he it were as brought me and the master here that day as he were nigh upon killed by Sampson Tramplara.’ Herring looked up; he was at the table. He had not been to church; why should he go to church to be bidden follow conscience when conscience leads astray? Why should he seek for light when the only light afforded is that of Jack o’lanthorns that lead into mires? He said bitterly, ’Joyce, why did you bring me hither?’ ’I couldn’t do nort other—I did it to make you well again.’ She had followed her conscience, and her poor light had led her to save his life. What for?—to make Mirelle miserable and himself miserable. Better a thousand times had he died then. ’But, Joyce, what about Jim White? What does he want?’ ’Well, miss, I dunnow exactly what he wants, but he’ve a walked all these miles, and he’ve a got to go back again, so what I want to know is, may he have his meat here, as he ain’t a going to get nort else?’ ’Certainly.’ ’And he may have a drop o’ cyder to his meat? Jim White be one as can’t get on without that. And he smells o’ cyder now like as old vaither’s cask did when it were fresh.’ ’By all means, Joyce,’ said Cicely, ’and you may invite him to come here once a month.’ Joyce flushed up. ’I—I don’t want the bufflehead to be coming here. I’ve a told ’n so scores and scores o’ times, and I’ll tell him if he comes again he’ll get neither meat nor cyder. He were here about a month ago, I reckon, and he sed he’d that partikler to say as could only be said between four eyes. So he sat in the kitchen on one chair, and I on another, a full two hours by the clock, and he never opened his mouth all that time but once, to ax why the great beam went across the ceiling. There! he shall have his meat this Sunday, and, by the blue blazes, he shan’t have it of me no more.’ Then she stepped up to Herring. ’Please, maister,’ she said, ’Jim White have a brought you a paper from Okehampton, a "Saturday News"; he sez he thought you’d a like to see ’n. I didn’t think the chap had it in ’n.’ ’Thank you, Joyce, and thank Jim White, and here is a present to him for his mistaken kindness to me on a former occasion.’ ’But,’ said Joyce, ’I may tell ’n that you don’t want the paper again. He be that stupid he might make the bringing of a paper an excuse to come here every Sunday. I know,’ she exclaimed brightly—’I know what I’ll do. I’ll tell ’n if he comes again you’ll up with your gun and bang off wi’ it as you did at me to Welltown that night.’ ’Very well; as you like.’ When Joyce had retired, Herring took up the paper indifferently. It could not interest him, for nothing interested him now. ’I wish you had been at church to-day, John,’ said Cicely; ’Mr. Harmless-Simpleton preached us a very good sermon.’ ’Indeed—on what text?’ asked John Herring, carelessly. ’After death, the judgment.’