Now, of course talk of this kind in a village like Holmfirth not only circulates, it percolates and in time the gist and substance of it reached Mr. Jones. He had had hopes of Tom at one time. He had observed with satisfaction that this very intelligent-looking, well-behaved, well-spoken, neatly dressed young man had been an attentive listener and frequent worshipper at his own chapel, and that, on occasions, he had brought with him that quite-past-praying-for Ben Garside, a notorious mocker and a scoffer. Mr. Jones had accepted their presence as one of many just tributes to his zeal and eloquence. One had been rescued from the tepid waters of the Church, the other was a brand plucked from the burning depths of infidelity, and Mr. Jones had duly rejoiced. And lo! now the neophytes had backslided and people "of a Sunday" would pass the inviting doors of Aenon Chapel and walk some two miles of a sultry or wintry afternoon to listen to one who was not only not one of the Covenant, but who was ordained neither by Bishop, Presbytery, nor Congress. He resolved to speak seriously to this erring sheep; and chancing to meet Tom one day descending the hill from Hinchliffe Mill to the village, stopped him, smiling affably and holding out a condescending hand: "Good morning, Pinder, I'm glad to see you. How are we this morning?" "Very well, thank you, Jones. How are you?" "Ahem! Mr. Jones, if _you_ please." "Certainly; Mr. Pinder, if you please." "Oh! certainly; you see in my position--" "Exactly--and in mine." Now this was not a very promising beginning. "Well?" said Tom. "I'll turn with you, _Mr_. Pinder. You are doubtless more pressed for time than I. Parson's Monday, you know, is Parson's Sunday." "Parsons seem to have a fair share of Sundays to the week," said Tom, but without any malice in the remark. "I remember good old Mr. Whitelock of St. Chad's couldn't bear to see a visitor on Saturday--preparing for Sunday, I suppose. Then of course there was Sunday itself, and on Monday every parson I've ever met declares that he feels like a wet rag or a squeezed orange." "Well it takes it out of a man to have to preach two sermons a day. But you should know something about it. I understand you have a sort of service at your mill on Sunday afternoons?" "You can scarcely call our meetings services," Tom replied. "We have no hymns, no sermon, and no collection. We have no preacher and no deacons." "But I thought you were the preacher." "Then you have been misinformed. It is true that I select some reading, generally not always, from the Scriptures. Then I try to make its meaning, or the meaning of some particular verse or verses, clear as I understand them. That's all; it's really more of a chat than a set discourse." "I see."