“There he is, naybours! Get behind the varmint, somebody, and stop his earth! Calls hisself a minister of God! Calls it _his_ church!” Mr. Raymond took his hands off the men’s shoulders, and walked straight up to him. “Not _my_ church,” he said, aloud and distinctly. “God’s church!” He stretched out an arm. Taffy, running up, supposed it stretched out to strike. “Father!” But Mr. Raymond’s palm was open as he lifted it over the Squire’s head. “God’s church,” he repeated. “In whose service, sir, I defy you. Go! or if you will, and have the courage, come and stand while I kneel amid the ruin you have done and pray God to judge between us.” He paused, with his eyes on the Squire’s. “You dare not, I see. Go, poor coward, and plan what mischief you will. Only now leave me in peace a little.” He took the boy’s hand and they passed into the church together. No one followed. Hand in hand they stood before the dismantled chancel. Taffy heard the sound of shuffling feet on the walk outside, and looked up into Mr. Raymond’s face. “Father!” “Kiss me, sonny.” The _De Imitatione Christi_ slipped from Taffy’s fingers and fell upon the chancel step. So his childhood ended. CHAPTER XIII. THE BUILDERS. These things happened on a Friday. After breakfast next morning Taffy went to fetch his books. He did so out of habit and without thinking; but his father stopped him. “Put them away,” he said. “Some day we’ll go back to them, but not yet.” Instead of books Humility packed their dinner in the satchel. They reached the church and found the interior just as they had left it. Taffy was set to work to pick up and sweep together the scraps of broken glass which littered the chancel. His father examined the wreckage of the pews. While the boy knelt at his task, his thoughts were running on the Pantomime. He had meant, last night, to recount all its wonders and the wonders of Plymouth; but somehow the words had not come. After displaying his presents he could find no more to say: and feeling his father’s hand laid on his shoulder, had burst into tears and hidden his face in his mother’s lap. He wanted to console them, and they were pitying _him_--why he could not say--but he knew it was so. And now the Pantomime, Plymouth, everything, seemed to have slipped away from him into a far past. Only his father and mother had drawn nearer and become more real. He tried to tell himself one of the old stories; but it fell into pieces like the fragments of coloured glass he was handling, and presently he began to think of the glass in his hands and let the story go. “On Monday we’ll set to work,” said his father. “I dare say Joel”-- this was the carpenter down at Innis village--“will lend me a few tools to start with. But the clearing up will take us all to-day.”