There was no reply for a moment, though he felt sure his voice must have carried to the quay-door. The figure paused for a second or two, then unbarred the lower flap of the door and advanced across the wall’s shadow to the centre of the bright grassplot under the window. It was the figure of a young woman. Her head was bare and her sleeves turned up to the elbows. She wore no cloak or wrap, to cover her from the night air, and her short-skirted, coarse frock was open at the neck. As she turned up her face to the window, the minister could see by the moon’s rays that it was well-favored.
“Be you the new preacher?” she asked, resting a hand on her hip and speaking softly up to him.
“I am the new Independent minister.”
“Then I’ve come for you.”
“Come for me?”
“Iss; my name’s Nance Trewartha, an’ you ’en wanted across the water, quick as possible. Old Mrs. Slade’s a-dyin’ to-night, over yonder.”
“She wants me?”
“She’s one o’ your congregation, an’ can’t die easy till you’ve seen her. I reckon she’s got something ’pon her mind; an’ I was to fetch you over, quick as I could.”
As she spoke the church clock down in the town chimed out the hour, and immediately after, ten strokes sounded on the clear air.
The minister consulted his own watch, and seemed to be considering.