"Gabriel," he laughed, "you've got a fine imagination. Damn your superstitions!"
"Lad, you're over proud in your strength of limb," groaned Hirst. "Give a thought to the soul that can be burned in hell fire for ever——"
"I won't!" snapped Griff, digging his heels into Lassie.
Both riders and horses were content to take things easily by the time they re-passed Wynyates. The exercise had driven out half Gabriel's morbid fancies, and his thoughts were set on Greta.
"Griff," he ventured at last; "have you seen the miller lately?"
"Yes—and the miller's daughter, too; which is more to the point, I take it. I looked in this morning on my way through Hazel Dene."
A long silence. A light that was not of spiritual worries came into the preacher's face—a hot, ugly light of jealousy.
"She's a lass in a thousand, Griff, and you're a better man to look at than I; do you mean to play me false?"
"Gabriel Hirst, if you want me to think you drunk again, go on in that strain," cried the other, harshly.
Gabriel winced.