“God bless ’im,” said Adam Olliver, “’is ’art’s i’ t’ right spot noo, hooivver, whativver it was fower munths since. An’ as for what he says aboot Lucy, it’s true, ivvery wod on’t. She’s t’ sweetest, goodest lass i’ Waverdale, an’ t’ squire hez t’ feynest lad. Lucy Blyth an’ Philip Fuller! Mah wod, Natty, what a pair they wad mak’! Ah ain’t mitch fayth i’ rich fooaks marryin’ poor fooaks. I offens finnds ’at they beeath on ’em marry mair then they reckon on. But Lucy’s a laydy, if ivver there was yan, if Philip’s a gentleman; they beeath luv the Lord, an’ they beeath luv tee-an t’ other, an’ if they wer’ joined tegither, all Waverdale wad be the better fo’t. Natty Blyth!” said Adam, noticing Nathan’s troubled countenance, and suddenly alive to probabilities, “Natty Blyth, aud friend! deean’t you gan an’ fight ageean God. Maister Houston, we’ve been an’ prayed te God for a twelve-munth ’at He wad tonn’d ’art o’ t’ aud squire an’ owerrule things seea as te get a chapil for uz. Noo, the Lord’s gi’en us what we wanted, an’ He’s getten things mixed up i’ deein’ it. Are we te leeav Him, an’ say, ‘There, Lord, Thoo mun brayk t’ threeads off noo; we’ve getten all we care aboot, an’ t’ rest may drop?’ Ah weean’t be sae meean an’ sae wicked; we mun still be co-workers wiv Him accordin’ tiv His will. If t’ web ov His providence hez a Methodist chapil i’ t’ pattern, it’s gotten Lucy Blyth an’ Philip Fuller in it as weel. Then, God helpin’ uz, we moan’t hinder t’ shuttle, but gan on till t’ weeavin’s deean. Sud we hae gotten this land if Philip Fuller hadn’t been sick? Sud we hae gotten this land if Lucy Blyth hadn’t gone te t’ Hall? Isn’t t’ aud squire ower heead an’ ears i’ luv wi’ beeath Philip an’ Lucy? Deean’t the two young fooaks luv t’ grund t’ eean t’ uther walks on? Aren’t they meead for yan anuther like two hoaves ov a pair o’ sithers? An’ isn’t t’ Methodist chapil gannin’ te be built te wed ’em in? Oppen thi’ een, Natty, an’ see what the Lord’s deein’. Ah fancy there’s a good bit o’ pride i’ yo’; for it may be just as strang under a blacksmith’s leather appron as under a squire’s white weeastcooat. You want te be independent, an’ it’s all varry weel up tiv a sartain point, bud you can’t be independent o’ God, an’ you’d better nut try. Natty, aud friend, ha’e you ivver axed Him what He hez te say aboot it?” This last inquiry struck Nathan Blyth very forcibly, and he was compelled to own that to Philip Fuller’s appeal, he had given a final answer on the strength of previous convictions. The marvellous change in the squire’s attitude to Lucy and Methodism had not presented itself to him as the result of Divine interposition, and as requiring new guidance from the Throne of Grace. He made no answer. Adam Olliver rose to his feet, and with great solemnity said, “Natty, you an’ me’ll mak’ this a matter o’ prayer.”