In this house dwelt the man the children were in search of, a man named Miles Coverdale. He was a doctor of learning, not of medicine, and lived a quiet life among his books. He it was who translated the Bible, carrying out the work that William Tyndall began. The people loved him for his charity and neighbourliness, and would often bring their disputes to him, content to abide by his word. Martin, arriving at the door, pulled with all his might at the bell. A little rusty, buried tinkle sounded grudgingly, far away in the old house. He pulled again--wasn’t every moment of importance? But the bell only gave the same inarticulate reply as if it had just turned round to go to sleep again, and couldn’t be troubled to sound. There are moments in life when we put forth the strength of Thor to attain some object, and the giant of circumstance, just as did the giant in the Norse legend, merely says, “Was that an acorn brushed my brow?” At last, however, the door opened, and a shrill voice began to scold. “Now then, just you step away off this threshold, and don’t come ringing off the roof of the house, enough to make the rafters fall to pieces! Any one would think the rats and mice were enough, let alone children to make a racket. Lord bless us and save us, and mud enough on the shoon to muck the whole place up, let alone the door-mat and the stonen steps. Now, do’ee just go right away with ye, and doant let me so much as see the corner of your----” “Now, now, now,” said a quiet voice behind the shrillness of the other, “what is it, Keziah? Your kitchen’s feeling lonely without you; I’ll attend to this.” And the children saw the fine face, and kind smile of Miles Coverdale, as he stood behind his shrewish old serving-maid. Keziah turned, muttering some cross apologies, and disappeared down the stone passage, leaving, like the widening wake of a ship in quiet waters, a trail of grumbling talk. But the children at once began to tell their story, and they had come to the right house. Soon all three were entering the village. Faith sickened as they neared the angry sound again, and saw a crowd by the edge of the horse-pond. “Now we’ll teach ’ee how to count the stars, Mother! They be all shown in the water come nightfall, and the toads, and the loach, and the newts can feed upon ’ee, and come by their own,” said one voice. “Sim as if the very water wouldn’t look at her, she be that dead heavy to bear,” said another. “Who be it, then,” cried a third, “as come over Double-Dyke Farm and witched the cows dead?” “Who was it charmed my churn so the butter wouldn’t come?” cried a shrill voice; “no, not if I turned me arms off! Ah, the nesty, spiteful crittur, she knowed as how my daughter wasn’t near; she thought she’d make me lose my butter.” “Sink or swim, sink or swim,” cried other voices; “to feed the evil sperrits and the mud-worms, we don’t want no better than she.”