She never told a soul of her home thoughts. Her husband never guessed them. But Taffy (without knowing why), whenever this verse from his old playbook came into his head, connected it with his mother.
But the old Squire was getting impatient. He took quite a feudal view of the saving of his soul, and would have dragged the whole parish to church by main force, had it been possible.
Late one afternoon, Taffy was lying in one of his favourite nooks in the lee of the towans, when he heard voices and looked up. And there sat the old gentleman gazing down on him from horseback, with Bill Udy at his side. The Squire was in hunting dress.
“What be doin’ down there?” he asked. “Praying?”
“No, sir.”
“I wish you would. I wish you’d pray for me. I’ve heerd that a child’ll do good sometimes when grown folk can’t. I doubt your father isn’t goin’ to do the good I looked for from en. He don’t believe in sudden conversion. Here, Bill, take the mare and lead her home.”
He dismounted, and seated himself with a groan on the edge of the sand-pit.
“Look here; I’ve got convictions of sin, but I can’t get no forrader. What’s to be done?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Taffy stammered, with his eyes on the Squire’s spurs.
“You can pray for me, I suppose?”