"Well, then, if that be yer mind, I’ll eat the pudden, and you hev two servings o’ pig—but not too much apple sauce, Maidy." "Good now! You do talk and talk, and there’s the boots to clean and the cloth to lay. We’ll never be done. Be off with ’ee." The voices ceased. "A very nice girl," repeated Mrs. Trevanion with a sigh. "I wish we could keep her. She would have a good influence on Sam, who is inclined to be idle." Dick smiled. "When my ship comes home, my dear," said the Squire. "Upon my word, ’tis cheering to hear a song in the morning, and the sun shining, too. I think the fire yesterday has burnt some of my melancholy away." After breakfast they walked over to the church. The people assembled in the churchyard bobbed and curtsied as the party from the Towers passed up the path, and wished them a merry Christmas, a sign of renewed friendliness which made the Squire glow with pleasure. There was a large congregation, and everybody expected that the Vicar would preach a sermon bearing on the events of the previous day. He had indeed looked out two old discourses, one on the text, "The wages of sin is death," the other on "The ways of transgressors are hard"; but he replaced them in his drawer, and selected a third, on the verse, "Peace on earth, goodwill towards men." "I won’t spoil the day for them," he said to himself; "but they shall not get off; they shall have something warming next Sunday." The worthy man did not foresee that next Sunday the church would be half empty, the people having concluded that he had found the iniquities of John Trevanion an unprofitable theme. After church the young folks trooped into the barn, where a Christmas dinner had been spread for them, and the men flocked down to the village, to spend an hour while their wives prepared the meal. For the first time in the history of the parish they passed by the open door of the Five Pilchards and made their way to the Three Jolly Mariners, to the delight of the innkeeper and the amazement of its few _habitués_. In the afternoon someone suggested that they should row out to the fairway to see the rock which Dick had thrown down. The oldsters, after their Christmas dinner, were disinclined to move; but Jake Tonkin, Ike Pendry, and others of the younger generation hailed the opportunity of stretching their legs, and a procession of boats rowed out to the spot. The sun, by this time creeping to the west, lit up the face of the cliff with a ruddy gleam, and a young miner, perched on the top of the rock, called the attention of the others to the appearance of curious streaks on the rugged surface of the promontory, where the falling rock had struck off fragments as it bounded down. "They look uncommon like silver," said he. "’Tis the deceivin’ sun," said Jake Tonkin. "Theer bean’t neither silver nor tin worth delvin’ for hereabouts." "Maybe, but I be goin’ to see," said the miner. "Gie me that boat-hook, my sonny."