"At lang length there was nobbut Sam Learoyd left. He was quieter nor t' others, but t' load o' sins about his heart was as tough as Whangby cheese. So me an' t' preacher gat on either side o' him an' we prayed an' better prayed, but all for nowt. So at last Sam got up off his knees, an' wi' a despert look on his face, says: 'Let me be. If I'm baan to find salvation I'll find it misen.' "At that we gav ower prayin', but kept kneelin' by his side an' waited for the Lord to sattle t' job. An' outside t' wind were yowlin' as if it would blow down t' walls and chimleys. But warr nor t' yowlin' o' t' wind were t' groans o' Sam Learoyd. "After a while t' groans gat easier, and then t' local started singin' in a low voice, 'Rock of Ages.' But Sam would have noan o' his singin'. So we just waited to see what would happen. Well, after a while t' groans stopped, an' Sam lifted up his heead an' looked round. 'Arta saved?' asked t' local, and Sam answered: 'I'm convicted o' sin.' 'Praise be to God,' sang out t' local, and we gat Sam off his knees and out o' t' chapil an' away home. An' ivver sin that time Sam's coom reg'lar to chapil twice on Sundays an' to t' weeknight sarvice too." "But will it last?" asked Tom Parfitt, whose long experience as a chapel member had taught him the snares of backsliding. "Aye, 'twill last," replied the circuit steward. "Sam's a changed man: he has gien ower sweerin', goes no more to t' public, but bides at home o' neight an' sits cowerin' ower t' fire readin' t' Book."