Aderhold saw him cross the stream by the footbridge and come on beneath the fairy oak. He knew who it was, and he had time to map his course. He had made up his mind—he was worn and weary and buffeted, he was now for peace and quiet living. He tied a millstone around the neck of the Gilbert Aderhold of Paris and sank him deep, deep! The minister stayed no great while and directed most of his discourse toward Master Hardwick. When he turned to Aderhold, the latter said little, listened much, answered circumspectly, and endued himself with an agreeing inclination of the head and an air of grave respect. When the minister was gone, he went and lay beneath the fairy oak, in the spangly twilight, his head buried in his arms. The next Sunday he went to church and sat with a still face, watching the sands run from the pulpit glass. There were facts about the region which he had gathered. The town a few miles away with the earl’s seat above it was prelatical and all for “superstitious usages.” The country between town and village might be called debatable ground. But Hawthorn Village and the region to the north of it might have been approved by Calvin or by Knox. Sitting far back, in the bare, whitewashed church, he remarked men and women truly happy in their religion, men and women who showed zeal if not happiness, men and women who wore zeal because it was the fashionable garment, men and women, born followers, who trooped behind zeal in others, and uttered war-cries in a language not their own. In the pulpit there was flaming zeal. The sermon dealt with miracles and prodigies, with the localities of heaven and hell, with Death and the Judgement—Death that entered the world five thousand and six hundred and odd years ago. “For before that time, my hearers, neither man nor animal nor flower nor herb died!”