In the same high strain of gratitude, speaker followed speaker, and the interest of the meeting was not only sustained but heightened. The minister from York gave a full, clear exposition of the distinctive doctrines of Methodism and the chief peculiarities of its discipline, to which, it was noted, the squire gave earnest, studious, and approving heed; Mr. Clayton talked wisely and well of Methodism’s special mission to Nestleton, and sketched in glowing colours a prophetic history of the new chapel, and the good work that should there be done for God. Mr. Mitchell found a thrilling and congenial theme in the Midden Harbour mission, and the triumphs of grace among its vicious and degraded inhabitants. Then the meeting was thrown open for the reception of gifts and promises, and it soon appeared as if, like Moses with the Israelites, Mr. Clayton would have to ask them to “stay their hand.” Jabez Hepton would make and give the pulpit; Kasper Crabtree would build the wall around the chapel grounds and surmount it with iron palisades; George Cliffe the carrier, and other owners of horses would “lead” the bricks, lime, sand, stone, slates, and timber free of cost. Widow Appleton promised the proceeds of her jargonelle pear-tree, and Piggy Morris would give a litter of porkers to increase the swelling funds. At length, up rose Black Morris, but so widely different was his aspect as compared with the sad, bad times of old--clean shaven, and with shortened locks, the old scowl conspicuous by its absence, and the entire countenance so illuminated with the gleam of grace, that all present felt that Black Morris was as dead as Queen Anne, that the _soubriquet_ was a libel, and that the “John Morris” of his innocent youth-hood had risen from the dead. Latterly the ex-poacher had sought with much success to gather employment as a farrier, and there seemed to be a reasonable prospect of prosperity in that particular line. John Morris asked permission to address the meeting; in feeling strains that held his hearers spell-bound, he recounted his strange and startling experience. He told the story of the brickbat, and pointed, with tears in his eyes, to the scar on Mr. Clayton’s face; ofttimes half-choked with sobs, he struggled through the narrative of his never-to-be-forgotten ride in the circuit gig. He told how he watched Mr. Clayton at Kesterton town-end with the brickbat in his hand. “I said as I put it in my pocket,” said he, “and turned down the Nestleton-road, ‘Hey, I shall want it again.’ And now I _do_ want it again. Here it is! (and he held the missile up before them), I want to give it to the new chapel. I’ve saved five pounds, and will save, by God’s help fifteen more, which I rejoice to give in gratitude to God; but I want to ask you to build the brickbat into the building, for it has been bathed many a time in tears of penitence, and I thank God, it has also been bathed in tears of joy.” The scene which followed baffles description. Mr.