“So, Mester Crook, you’re making a Quaker of Tom Boddily. He’s too nice to take money when he’s earned it.” “Only what he calls blood-money,” said Sylvanus. “Blood-money—stuff! Th’ money is just same as any other money. Does Boddily know better than Government as offered it?” “Perhaps he does,” said Sylvanus, quietly. “Perhaps he does not,” retorted Betty, sharply. “He could go and catch Scammel, and get him hanged, if he had not been drownded; and then—oh, dear no! he could not take money for doing it! That’s just like catching varmint, and then letting it go again, because you can na bear to kill it, poor thing. Tom’s brains is getting addled, and it’s all through your silly Quakerism.” “I think thou can hardly prove that Tom has any concern with Quakerism, or that it is silly, Betty.” “Well, Mester Crook, it does na grow, does na your Quakerism; and a thing as does na grow is silly or worse. If a system has salvation in it, it ought to grow, for sin and wickedness grow like weeds, and spread like wild-fire,—and what’s the use of a religion as goes and sits still in a corner, and does na move no more nor a post, and lets souls perish by thousands and millions?—that thinks a cocked hat and a coat without a collar, or buttons, will stop the devil when he’s going about like a roaring lion? If it is good, let it come out and show itself, and not sit huddled up in silence like a hen that has got the pip. I went one day into th’ Quaker meeting in Castleborough; and I looked about, and, for the life of me, I could na see any preacher. They all sat with their hats on, and looked, I could na tell where. At last, after a plaguy long time, they shook hands, and started up, and went out. Oh, what a place to call a place of worship, where there’s neither prayer nor praise!” “There thou art wrong,” said Sylvanus; “I hope there is both. For my own part, I know there is; but thou talkest of things growing and spreading,—and thou say’st ill weeds spread apace. Well, that is true; and look thee, Betty, don’t thy people spread so fast as to remind one rather of weeds? If there are but few that we acknowledge as fitting members of our Society, does not our Saviour say, ‘Narrow is the way, and few there be that find it?’ Methodism is so prolific, it may be compared to the multiplication of vermin, which multiply by thousands. The lion, the king of beasts, brings forth but one, but then it is a lion.”