"I'd liefer you didn't. I don't want it. I don't hold by any o't. You'm very kind," she went on, her voice trembling for an instant and then recovering its firmness, "and I reckon it soothed mother. But I reckon it don't soothe me. I reckon it rubs me the wrong way. There's times, when I hears a body prayin', that I wishes we was Papists again and worshipped images, that I might throw stones at 'em!" She paused, looked up into Geake's devouring eyes, and added, with a poor attempt at a laugh: "So you see, I'm wicked, an' don't want to be saved." Then the man broke forth: "Saved? No, I reckon you don't! Wicked? Iss, I reckon you be! But saved you shall be--ay, if you was twice so wicked. Who'll do it? I'll do it--I alone. I don't want your help. I want to do it in spite of 'ee: an' I'll lay that I do! Be your wickedness deep as hell, an' I'll reach down a hand to the roots and pluck it up: be your salvation stubborn as Death, I'll wrestle wi' the Lord for it. If I sell my own soul for't, yours shall be redeemed!" He slammed down his fist on the rickety deal table, which promptly collapsed flat on the floor, with its four legs splayed under the circular cover. "Bein' a carpenter--" Geake began to stammer apologetically, and in a totally different tone. For a second--two seconds--the issue hung between tears and laughter. An hysterical merriment twinkled in Naomi's eyes. But the strength of Geake's passion saved the situation. He stepped up to Naomi, laid a hand on each shoulder, and shook her gently to and fro. "Listen to me! As I hold 'ee now, so I take your fate in my hands. Naomi Bricknell, you've got to be my wife, so make up your mind to that." She cowered a little under his grasp; put out a hand to push him off; drew it back; and broke into helpless sobbing. But this time she did not command him to go away. Fifteen minutes later William Geake left Vellan's Rents with joy on his face and a broken table under his arm. And two days later Naomi's face wore a look of demure happiness when Long Oliver stopped her on the staircase and asked, "Is it true, what I hear?" "It is true," she answered. "An' when be the banns called?" "There ain't goin' to be no banns." "Hey?" "There ain't goin' to be no banns; leastways, there ain't goin' to be none called. We'm goin' to the Registry Office. You look all struck of a heap. Was you hopin' to be best man?" "Well, I reckoned I'd take a hand in the responses," he answered; and seemed about to say more, but turned on his heel and went back to his room, shutting the door behind him. III. We pass to a Saturday morning, two years later, and to William Geake's cottage at the western end of Gantick village.