The artist looked at him queerly. 'Things in stone and such, up and down England. You would not have heard of 'em. To come nearer home, I rebuilded this little St Barnabas' church of ours. It cost me more trouble and sorrow than aught I've touched in my life. But 'twas a sound lesson.' 'Um,' said Dan. 'We've had lessons this morning.' 'I'll not afflict ye, lad,' said Hal, while Puck roared. 'Only 'tis strange to think how that little church was rebuilt, re-roofed, and made glorious, thanks to some few godly Sussex ironmasters, a Bristow sailor lad, a proud ass called Hal o' the Draft because, d'you see, he was always drawing and drafting; and'--he dragged the words slowly--'and a Scotch pirate.' 'Pirate?' said Dan. He wriggled like a hooked fish. 'Even that Andrew Barton you were singing of on the stair just now.' He dipped again in the inkwell, and held his breath over a sweeping line, as though he had forgotten everything else. 'Pirates don't build churches, do they?' said Dan. 'Or do they?' 'They help mightily,' Hal laughed. 'But you were at your lessons this morn, Jack Scholar.' 'Oh, pirates aren't lessons. It was only Bruce and his silly old spider,' said Una. 'Why did Sir Andrew Barton help you?' 'I question if he ever knew it,' said Hal, twinkling. 'Robin, how a' mischief's name am I to tell these innocents what comes of sinful pride?' 'Oh, we know all about that,' said Una pertly. 'If you get too beany--that's cheeky--you get sat upon, of course.' Hal considered a moment, pen in air, and Puck said some long words. 'Aha! that was my case too,' he cried. 'Beany--you say--but certainly I did not conduct myself well. I was proud of--of such things as porches--a Galilee porch at Lincoln for choice--proud of one Torrigiano's arm on my shoulder, proud of my knighthood when I made the gilt scroll-work for the Sovereign--our King's ship. But Father Roger sitting in Merton College Library, he did not forget me. At the top of my pride, when I and no other should have builded the porch at Lincoln, he laid it on me with a terrible forefinger to go back to my Sussex clays and rebuild, at my own charges, my own church, where us Dawes have been buried for six generations. "Out! Son of my Art!" said he. "Fight the Devil at home ere you call yourself a man and a craftsman." And I quaked, and I went... How's yon, Robin?' He flourished the finished sketch before Puck. 'Me! Me past peradventure,' said Puck, smirking like a man at a mirror. 'Ah, see! The rain has took off! I hate housen in daylight.' 'Whoop! Holiday!' cried Hal, leaping up. 'Who's for my Little Lindens? We can talk there.' They tumbled downstairs, and turned past the dripping willows by the sunny mill-dam. 'Body o' me,' said Hal, staring at the hop-garden, where the hops were just ready to blossom. 'What are these? Vines? No, not vines, and they twine the wrong way to beans.' He began to draw in his ready book.