"These are my parishioners," he said, "and not one of them comes to church. They're just like heathen. It looks a God-forsaken place, does it not?"
"It seems a strange place to see cottages," said Miss Falkner. "How do they earn their living?"
"By peat-cutting, and working in a quarry a mile off. The blacksmith is unable to walk far, or I really think I should see him at church sometimes. The rest are totally indifferent to their soul's welfare. I am longing to build a little mission-room and come over and have a service for them, but it would cost money, and I have none to spare at present."
"It is a pity," said Miss Falkner gently. "One wonders sometimes if money drifted into the right channels whether this dense ignorance would be overcome. At my old home there was a district very like this. My father's curate was indefatigable in trying to raise money, and he eventually succeeded. It was a great success, for the people came to the mission church and sent their children to school. But he—" her voice faltered a little, "overworked himself, took cold and died, and my father followed him. The present rector does not care for the mission-room. He thinks they ought to come to church, and they don't do it."
Mr. Errington nodded with perfect comprehension.
"Of course not. It would want a good deal of zeal to walk eight miles after a week's hard work. Our English labourer will not do it."
They talked on, and much of the conversation was above the children's heads, but Jill was a sharp child, and she was already evolving a plan in her head, which had the effect of taking her to the Rectory the next day.
Mrs. Errington was a great invalid. When she was told that "Miss Jill Baron" wanted to see her, she said to her husband, who was overlooking some accounts with her:
"My dear Robert, we ought not to be disturbed. Shall we say we are engaged?"