"Well," he said, "I don't wish individuals no particular harm, you'll understand, but speaking general, I suppose you realise that your job's over. The Church will be swept away for good 'n' all in a few months now, and to my way of thinking it'll be the best thing as 'as ever come to the country. The Church has always failed to reach the labourin' man." "Because the labouring man has generally failed to reach the Church," said Gortre, smiling. "But you mean Disestablishment is near, I suppose?" "That's it, mister," said the man. "It must come now, and about time, too, after all these centuries of humbug. I used to go to church years back and sing 'The Church's one foundation.' Its foundation's been proved a pack o' lies now, and down it comes. Disestablishment will prove the salvation of England. When religion's swept away by act o' Parliament, then men will have an opportunity of talking sense and seeing things clearly." He spoke without rudeness but with a certain arrogance and an obvious satisfaction at the situation. Here was a parson cornered, literally, forced to listen to him, with no way of escape. Gortre imagined that he was congratulating himself that this was not a corridor train. "I think Disestablishment is very likely to come indeed," said Gortre, "and it will come the sooner for recent events. Of course I think that it will be most barefaced robbery to take endowments from the Church which are absolutely her own property, and use them for secular purposes, but I'm not at all sure that it wouldn't be an excellent thing for the Church after all. But you seem to think that Disestablishment will destroy _religion_. That is an entire mistake, as you will find." "It's destroyed already," said the man, "let alone what's _going_ to happen. Since what they've found out in Jerusalem the whole thing's gone puff! like blowin' out a match. You can't get fifty people together in any town what believe in religion any more. The religion of common sense has come now, and it's come to stay." A voice with a curious singing inflection came from the corner of the carriage, a voice utterly unlike the harsh North-country accent of the workman. The old woman was beginning to speak. Gortre recognised the curious Cornish tones at once, and looked up with sudden interest. "You'm wrong, my son," said the old woman, "bitter wrong you be, and 'tis carnal vanity that spakes within you. To Lostwithul, where I bide, I could show 'ee different to what you do say." The workman, a good-humoured fellow enough, smiled superior at the odd old thing. The wrinkled face had become animated, two deep lines ran from the nostrils to the corner of the lips, hard and uncompromising. The eyes were bright. "Well, Mother," he said, "let's hear what _you've_ got ter say. Fair do's in argument is only just and proper."