John Dallington had frequently availed himself of the opportunities afforded him in distant lands of attending religious services, but he never joined more heartily in the prayers than he did on this occasion. They expressed exactly what he felt, and the grand old Psalms and the _Te Deum_ filled the little old Darentdale church with strains that were sweeter to his ears than any that he had heard in the grand cathedrals of the Continent. But now his heart was full of peace and goodwill, and he was in the mood to enjoy anything. How could he help wishing to be good when he had so much for which to be thankful? We hear plenty of talk about the salutary effects of sorrow, but is not joy salutary too? It is the miserable who are the most tempted to wickedness. If there were only more happiness in the world, it is almost certain that there would be more goodness also. The services at Darentdale church were never unnecessarily lengthened, and before long the congregation was filing out. Most people waited to give some sort of respectful greeting to Mrs. Hunter and her son. Considerable sympathy was felt for the widow, though very little affection had been manifested toward her late husband, and the villagers managed to let the lady feel this. “Things are looking very much the same, mother. I miss one or two of the older people, and some of the boys and girls have grown up like myself; but, on the whole, there is little change. How are the Dissenters getting on? Are there any more chapels built?” “Oh, yes; one or two Methodists, besides the old Baptist and the Salvation Army.” “I must turn into one of them this evening, and see how things look there!” “I hope you will not take to chapel going!” “Why not, mother?” laughed John. “It is a rule of mine to go everywhere, and see everything that I can. And it has answered very well, too. I assure you that one sometimes gets splendidly entertained in most unlikely places.” “I hope you will not seek entertainment there, at all events; though, of course, you must do as you like now.” Mrs. Hunter accompanied the last clause with a significant sigh of resignation. “That is a privilege you have always given me,” he answered, gently, “and I hope it has done me no harm. But here we are in the wood again. Mother, haven’t you heard people say that they love the very ground they tread on? That is how I feel to-day. I wonder how it is that we all have such a regard for land.” “Because of what it brings forth, I suppose.” “I scarcely think that accounts for it altogether. Of course, as the land is such a marvellous producer of wealth, it is only right and natural that it should be respected and well-treated. But it is no thought of crops that makes me like to look at it to-day.” “That is as well, perhaps,” said Mrs. Hunter, grimly, “for he who sets his heart upon crops in these days is likely to become heart-broken.” “I know they have been very poor for several seasons.”