“Not yet,” he said.
“What more’s to do?”
“I feel a kind o’ message like to set it plumb-true under the sky. Us caan’t lift it, but if I pull a plank or two out o’ the pig’s house an’ put a harrow chain round ’em, we could get the cross on an’ let a horse pull un up theer to the hill, and set un up. Then us would have done all man can.”
He pointed to the bosom of the adjacent hill, now glowing in great sunset light.
“Starve me! but you ’m wise. Us’ll set the thing up under the A’mighty’s eye. ’Twill serve—mark my words. ’Twill turn the purpose of the Lard o’ Hosts, or I’m no prophet.”
“’Tis in my head you ’m right. I be lifted up in a way I never was.”
“The Lard ’s found ’e by the looks of it,” said Billy critically, “either that, or you ’m light-headed for want of sleep. But truly I think He’ve called ’e. Now ’t is for you to answer.”
They cleaned the cross with a bucket or two of water, then dragged it half-way up the hill, and, where a rabbit burrow lessened labour, raised their venerable monument under the afterglow.
“It do look as if it had been part o’ the view for all time,” declared Ted Chown, as the party retreated a few paces; and, indeed, the stone rose harmoniously upon its new site, and might have stood an immemorial feature of the scene.
Blanchard stayed not a moment when the work was done but strode to Newtake like a jubilant giant, while Mr. Blee and Chown, with the horse, tools, and rough sledge, followed more slowly.