As Gabriel raised his hand to enforce his belief, there was a rap on the cottage door. Maggie got up nimbly, smoothed down her apron, and hastened to the low entry.
“Aye, Mr. Thatcher, come in.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Thatcher, coming in, “cosy little room, brasses attractive, pretty willow-wood there. Ah, good-afternoon, Gabriel, about to have your tea, don’t let me disturb you.” And Mr. Thatcher seated himself comfortably by the kitchen fire.
“We can wait for our tea, Mr. Thatcher,” said Gabriel, continuing to stand.
“Ah, very well, I won’t keep you long! I just came in to speak to you about that little matter I mentioned the other day. Sir Evan is much in earnest; he feels that church tenants would be a decided advantage to—to the harmony of the estate.”
Maggie’s glance fluttered anxiously to Gabriel.
“Mr. Thatcher, a man can’t change his beliefs to suit his landlord’s, meanin’ no disrespect to Sir Evan,” came the reply, in a voice as uncompromising as Gabriel’s attitude.
“Ah-h, well,” drawled Mr. Thatcher, tapping his long nose; “there’s Price an’ Howell an’ Jenkins, they’re church people now,” he concluded.
“May every one pity them!” exclaimed Gabriel.