The day following that on which the scoundrels who had made the attempt on the vicarage had been sent off to the county town, the vicar was in his garden musing on his future, and thinking whether it was his duty to leave Dumford and go far away, as life there had become a torture; but everything seemed to tend towards the point that it was his duty to stay and forget self in trying to aid others. In spite of the past, it seemed to him that he had done good; Richard Glaire had listened to reason; the strike was nearly over, and the men had settled down into a calmer state of resignation to their fate. So quiet were they that he more than suspected that they had some inkling of the change coming on. Then, too, he had made peace at the farm, where the wedding of John Maine and Jessie was shortly to take place, John, at his instigation, having frankly told the farmer the whole of his past life, to be greeted with a tremendous clap on the shoulder and called "a silly sheep." "Just as if thou could'st help that, lad," said the old man. "Why didstn't out wi' it at first?" And then Eve's wedding. "Poor girl! she wishes it," the vicar said to himself, continuing his musing, as he stooped to tie up a flower here and there. "It would be madness to interpose, and God help her, she will redeem him, and--I hope so--I hope so." "Well, I must stay," he said, with a weary smile upon his face. "I am a priest, and the priests of old looked upon self-denial as a duty. Let it be mine to try and perfect the peace that is coming back to this strange old place." "Paarson!" He started and looked round, but no one was visible, and yet a deep rough voice he seemed to know had spoken. "Paarson!" was repeated, apparently close to his feet where he was standing by the garden hedge. "Who is it?" "Niver mind who it is," said the voice. "I joost want a word wi' you." "Where are you?" "Lying down here i' th' dyke. I had to creep here 'mong the nattles like a big snail." "Well, come out, man, and speak to me." "Nay, nay, that wean't do." "What, is it you, Harry?" "Howd your tongue, wilt ta, paarson. I don't want the lads to know as I comed and telled you. I've come along fower dykes." "What does it all mean?" said the vicar, leaning over the hedge, to see the great hammerman lying on his face in the ditch on the field side. "Don't ask no questions, paarson, for I wean't tell nowt, 'cause I'm sweered not to; but I don't like what's going on." "Well, but tell me, Harry, I beg--I insist--" "I wean't tell thee nowt, paarson, on'y this here. Yow wouldn't like them as you knows hurt, so joost tell Dicky Glaire to look out." "But why--when? I must know more." The only answer was a loud rustling, and the great body of the hammerman could be seen crawling through the nettles as he made his way pretty quickly along in the opposite direction to that in which he had come, and the vicar forbore to pursue, as it might have tended to betray him.