"What mak o' a gaffer is Learoyd?" one labourer would ask of another as they stood together in the Holmton market-place waiting to be hired. "A dowly, harden-faced mon, an' gey hard to bide wi', accordin' to what all t' day-tale men is sayin'," replied the other. "He looks it," answered the first. "He's gotten a face that's like beer when t' thunder has turned it to allicker. If I was to live wi' him I'd want a clothes-horse set betwix' me an' him at dinner, or he'd turn my vittles sour i' my belly." "He twilted his wife, did Learoyd, while she ran away wi' Sam Woodhead at t' Woolpack, an' then he selled his dowter for sixpence. He can't bide women-fowks i' t' house." "Then he'll not git me to coom an' live wi' him. I've swallowed t' church i' my last place, but I'm noan baan to swallow t' steeple at efter." Such were the opinions passed on Learoyd by the farm labourers round about Holmton, and it was little wonder that, as the years went by, the condition of his farm grew steadily worse. When the Parfitts had been married fifteen years, a strange rumour reached their cottage of a spiritual change that had been wrought in the soul of Samuel Learoyd. It was reported that the farmer had been attending the revival services held in the little Primitive Methodist chapel about a mile away from his farm, that his flinty heart had been melted, and that he had "found the Lord." The weaver's family was slow to credit this change, though Mary prayed fervently night and morning that it might be true. Their doubts, however, were set at rest by the circuit steward of the Holmton chapel where they attended service. He had taken part in the revival meetings and related what he had seen. "Aye, it's true, sure enough," he said. "Sam Learoyd's a changed man. It were t' local preacher that done it. He gat him on to his knees anent t' penitential forms at after t' sarvice, an' there were a two-three more wi' him; an' t' preacher an' me wrastled wi' t' devil for their souls. I've niver seen sich tewin' o' t' spirit sin I becom a Methody. 'Twere a hot neight, and what wi' t' heat an' t' spiritual exercises, t' penitents were fair reekin' an' sweatin'. We went thro' one to t' other and kept pleadin' wi' 'em. 'Tread t' owd devil under fooit,' says we; 'think on t' blooid o' t' Lamb that weshes us thro' all sin.' An' t' penitents would holla out: 'I can't, I can't: he's ower strang for me; I'm baan to smoor i' hell fires.' But t' local were stranger nor t' devil for all that, an' first one an' then another on 'em would shout out: 'I'm saved; I've fun' Him, I've fun' the Lord!' Then they'd git up an' walk out o' t' room that weak you could hae knocked 'em down wi' a feather.