Vennie blushed scarlet at the mention of the priest’s name, and to hide her confusion, buried her head in a great clump of rag-wort, pressing its yellow clusters vehemently against her cheeks, with agitated trembling hands. When she lifted up her face, the fair hair under her hat was sprinkled with dewy moisture. “The turn of the year has come,” she said. “There’s mist on everything today.” She smiled, with a quick embarrassed glance at her companion. “The turn of the year has come,” repeated the champion of the papacy. They descended the slope of yet another field, and then paused again, leaning upon a gate. “Have you ever thought how strange it is,” remarked the girl, as they turned to survey the scene around them, “that those two hills should still, in a way, represent the struggle between good and evil? I always wish that my ancestors had built a chapel on Nevilton Mount instead of that silly little tower.” The theologian fixed his eyes on the two eminences which, from the point where they stood, showed so emphatically against the smouldering August sky. “Why do you call Leo’s Hill evil?” he asked. Vennie frowned. “I always have felt like that about it,” she answered. “It’s an odd fancy I’ve got. I can’t quite explain it. Perhaps it’s because I know something of the hard life of the quarry-men. Perhaps it’s because of Mr. Romer. I really can’t tell you. But that’s the feeling I have!” “Our worthy Mr. Wone would thank you, if you lent him your idea for use in his speeches,” remarked the theologian with a chuckle. “That’s just it!” cried Vennie. “It teases me, more than I can say, that the cause of the poor should be in his hands. I can’t associate _him_ with anything good or sacred. His being the one to oppose Mr. Romer makes me feel as though God had left us completely, left us at the mercy of the false prophets!” “Child, child!” expostulated Mr. Taxater--“_Custodit Dominus animas sanctorum suorum; de manu peccatoris liberabit eos_.” “But it is so strange,” continued Vennie. “It is one of the things I cannot understand. Why should God have to use other means than those His church offers to defeat the designs of wicked people? I wish miracles happened more often! Sometimes I dream of them happening. I dreamt the other night that an angel, with a great silver sword, stood on the top of Nevilton Mount, and cried aloud to all the dead in the churchyard. Why can’t God send real angels to fight His battles, instead of using wolves in sheep’s clothing like that wretched Mr. Wone?”