Tom hesitated a moment. '_Th' Lord!_' he burst out at last, looking at Davy with that sudden unconscious dignity which strong feeling can bestow for the moment on the meanest of mortals. 'He's a harryin' me! I haven't slep this three neets for shoutin an cryin! It's th' conviction o' _sin_, Davy. Th' devil seems a howdin me, an I conno pull away, not whativer. T' new minister says, 'Dunnot yo pull. Let Jesus do't all.' He's strang, He is. 'Yo're nobbut a worm.' But I've naw _assurance_, Davy, theer's whar it is--I've naw assurance!' he repeated, forgetting in his pain the unregenerate mind of his companion. David walked on beside him wondering. When he had last seen Tom he was lounging in a half-drunken condition outside the door of the 'Crooked Cow,' cracking tipsy jokes with the passers-by. 'Where is the prayer-meetin?' he inquired presently. 'In owd Simes's shed--an it's late too--I mun hurry.' 'Why, theer'll be plenty o' room in old Simes's shed. It's a fearfu big place.' 'An lasst time theer was na stannin ground for a corn-boggart; an I wudna miss ony o' Mr. Dyson's prayin, not for nothin. Good neet to yo, Davy.' And Tom broke into a run; David, however, kept up with him. 'P'raps I'll coom too,' he said, with a kind of bravado, when they had passed the bridge and the Kinder printing works, and Clough End was in sight. Tom said nothing till they had breasted a hill, at the top of which he paused panting, and confronted David. 'Noo yo'll not mak a rumpus, Davy,' he said, mistrustfully. 'An if do, can't a hundred or two o' yo kick me out?' asked David, mockingly. 'I'll mak no rumpus. P'raps yor Mr. Dyson'll convert me.' And he walked on laughing. Tom looked darkly at him; then, as he recovered his wind, his countenance suddenly cleared. Satan laid a new snare for him--poor Tom!--and into his tortured heart there fell a poisonous drop of spiritual pride. Public reprobation applied to a certain order of offences makes a very marketable kind of fame, as the author of _Manfred_ knew very well. David in his small obscure way was supplying another illustration of the principle. For the past year he had been something of a personage in Clough End--having always his wits, his book-learning, his looks, and his singular parentage to start from. Tom--the shambling butt of his comrades--began to like the notion of going into prayer-meeting with David Grieve in tow; and even that bitter and very real cloud of spiritual misery lifted a little. So they marched in together, Tom in front, with his head much higher than before; and till the minister began there were many curious glances thrown at David. It was a prayer-meeting for boys only, and the place was crammed with them, of all ages up to eighteen. It was a carpenter's workshop. Tools and timber had been as far as possible pushed to the side, and at the end a rough platform of loose planks had been laid across some logs so as to raise the preacher a little.