Gil's hand was laid in the heavy palm of the parson of Roehurst, and they joined in a close firm grip without another word. "When shall these fires be going again, Master Cobbe," continued the parson; "when shall the busy wheel turn plashing round? Come, come, promise me that thy mourning shall not be quite out of bounds." The founder had turned his back, and remained gazing away from them at the blackened heap. "You will be up and doing, will you not, Master Cobbe?" continued the parson, urging him on. "Come: for thy child's sake. Would'st have this place left a ruin? Come, promise me thou wilt." A deep sigh seemed to tear itself from the founder's breast, and he turned to gaze in the direction of his works. "Thou art right, parson," he said; "it is not fair that the workmen I brought here to feed and furnish with hard labour should suffer for my sake. The fires shall be lit again." "Ay, that's well," said Master Peasegood earnestly. "It will be glad news for many a heart. Then I shall see the axe busy again as the leaves fall, and the glow of the charcoal fire in the woods; and meantime thy men will delve for iron, and the furnaces go roaring on. Is it not so?" "Yes." "Bravely spoken, brave heart," said Master Peasegood; "and thou, Gil Carr, off to thy ship once more, and bear away her freight. Come back to us laden with the pale yellow brimstone and the grey-white salt. Tut, tut, tut, of what am I speaking?" he muttered, as Gil shuddered. "You will go, my brave lad, eh?" "I suppose so: yes," said Gil slowly; and the parson laid his hand upon the founder's shoulder once more. "And the dear old house, Master Cobbe? There is sandstone waiting in the quarry to be borne here, and thou hast oaken timber enough cut to build it up. When wilt begin to repair thy loss?" "Never," cried the founder fiercely. "Parson Peasegood, I'll work and toil and invent and strive day and night to keep things going here, but it is for others' sake, not mine." "Nay, nay, but the house must be restored." "Never," cried the founder; "never, Master Peasegood; never, Gil Carr. I care nothing for the words of that reviling old woman and her curses. Punishments come from Heaven, not from Hell, and, if she be a witch, 'tis devil's work she does; but no hand shall touch yon heap, neither stone nor ash shall be disturbed. The flowers may spring up again, and the grass will grow, but to touch it would be to me like disturbing my poor child's grave. Our dear old home died with my darling. Let them rest." He turned away and walked firmly across the planks towards the lane where Tom Croftly's cottage stood, followed by the parson and Gil, who stepped back as the founder rapped upon the cottage door. "Tom," he said, as the door was opened, and the light of a rush-candle shone upon his deeply-lined face, "go round to the men and bid them light the big furnace in the morning, and you see about the mixing up of another batch of powder."