"It's destroyed already," said the man, "let alone what's going to happen. Since what they've found out in Jerusalem the whole thing's gone puff! like blowin' out a match. You can't get fifty people together in any town what believe in religion any more. The religion of common sense has come now, and it's come to stay."
A voice with a curious singing inflection came from the corner of the carriage, a voice utterly unlike the harsh North-country accent of the workman. The old woman was beginning to speak.
Gortre recognised the curious Cornish tones at once, and looked up with sudden interest.
"You'm wrong, my son," said the old woman, "bitter wrong you be, and 'tis carnal vanity that spakes within you. To Lostwithul, where I bide, I could show 'ee different to what you do say."
The workman, a good-humoured fellow enough, smiled superior at the odd old thing. The wrinkled face had become animated, two deep lines ran from the nostrils to the corner of the lips, hard and uncompromising. The eyes were bright.
"Well, Mother," he said, "let's hear what you've got ter say. Fair do's in argument is only just and proper."
"Ah!" she replied, "it's easy to go scat when you've not got love of the Lard in your heart. I be gone sixty years of age, and many as I can mind back-along as have trodden the path of sorrow. There be a brae lot o' fools about."
The workman winked at Gortre with huge enjoyment, and settled himself comfortably in his place.
"Then you don't hold with Disestablishing the Church, Mother?" he said.
"I do take no stock in Church," she replied, "begging the gentleman's pardon"—this to Gortre. "I was born and bred a Wesleyan and such I'm like to die. How should I know what they'll be doing up to London church town? This here is my first visit to England to see my daughter, and it'll be the last I've a mind to take. You should come to Cornwall, my dear, and then you'll see if religion's over and done away with."