“Well, I must stay,” he said, with a weary smile upon his face. “I am a priest, and the priests of old looked upon self-denial as a duty. Let it be mine to try and perfect the peace that is coming back to this strange old place.”
“Paarson!”
He started and looked round, but no one was visible, and yet a deep rough voice he seemed to know had spoken.
“Paarson!” was repeated, apparently close to his feet where he was standing by the garden hedge.
“Who is it?”
“Niver mind who it is,” said the voice. “I joost want a word wi’ you.”
“Where are you?”
“Lying down here i’ th’ dyke. I had to creep here ’mong the nattles like a big snail.”
“Well, come out, man, and speak to me.”
“Nay, nay, that wean’t do.”