Holcroft was not long in climbing to a sunny nook whence he could see not only his farm and dwelling, but also the Oakville valley, and the little white spire of the distant meeting house.  He looked at this last-named object wistfully and very sadly.  Mrs. Mumpson's tirade about worship had been without effect, but the memories suggested by the church were bitter-sweet indeed.  It belonged to the Methodist denomination, and Holcroft had been taken, or had gone thither, from the time of his earliest recollection.  He saw himself sitting between his father and mother, a round-faced urchin to whom the sermon was unintelligible, but to whom little Bessie Jones in the next pew was a fact, not only intelligible, but very interesting.  She would turn around and stare at him until he smiled, then she would giggle until her mother brought her right-about-face with considerable emphasis.  After this, he saw the little boy--could it have been himself?--nodding, swaying, and finally slumbering peacefully, with his head on his mother's lap, until shaken into sufficient consciousness to be half dragged, half led, to the door.  Once in the big, springless farm wagon he was himself again, looking eagerly around to catch another glimpse of Bessie Jones.  Then he was a big, irreverent boy, shyly and awkwardly bent on mischief in the same old meeting house.  Bessie Jones no longer turned and stared at him, but he exultingly discovered that he could still make her giggle on the sly.  Years passed, and Bessie was his occasional choice for a sleigh-ride when the long body of some farm wagon was placed on runners, and boys and girls--young men and women, they almost thought themselves--were packed in like sardines.  Something like self-reproach smote Holcroft even now, remembering how he had allowed his fancy much latitude at this period, paying attention to more than one girl besides Bessie, and painfully undecided which he liked best.

Then had come the memorable year which had opened with a protracted meeting.  He and Bessie Jones had passed under conviction at the same time, and on the same evening had gone forward to the anxious seat.  From the way in which she sobbed, one might have supposed that the good, simple-hearted girl had terrible burdens on her conscience; but she soon found hope, and her tears gave place to smiles.  Holcroft, on the contrary, was terribly cast down and unable to find relief.  He felt that he had much more to answer for than Bessie; he accused himself of having been a rather coarse, vulgar boy; he had made fun of sacred things in that very meeting house more times than he liked to think of, and now for some reason could think of nothing else.

He could not shed tears or get up much emotion; neither could he rid himself of the dull weight at heart.  The minister, the brethren and sisters, prayed for him and over him, but nothing removed his terrible inertia.  He became a familiar form on the anxious seat for there was a dogged persistence in his nature which prevented him from giving up; but at the close of each meeting he went home in a state of deeper dejection.  Sometimes, in returning, he was Bessie Jones' escort, and her happiness added to his gall and bitterness.  One moonlight night they stopped under the shadow of a pine near her father's door, and talked over the matter a few moments before parting.  Bessie was full of sympathy which she hardly knew how to express.  Unconsciously, in her earnestness--how well he remembered the act!--she laid her hand on his arm as she said, "James, I guess I know what's the matter with you.  In all your seeking you are thinking only of yourself--how bad you've been and all that.  I wouldn't think of myself and what I was any more, if I was you.  You aint so awful bad, James, that I'd turn a cold shoulder to you; but you might think I was doing just that if ye stayed away from me and kept saying to yourself, 'I aint fit to speak to Bessie Jones.'"

Her face had looked sweet and compassionate, and her touch upon his arm had conveyed the subtle magic of sympathy.  Under her homely logic, the truth had burst upon him like sunshine.  In brief, he had turned from his own shadow and was in the light.  He remembered how in his deep feeling he had bowed his head on her shoulder and murmured, "Oh, Bessie, Heaven bless you!  I see it all."

He no longer went to the anxious seat.  With this young girl, and many others, he was taken into the church on probation.  Thereafter, his fancy never wandered again, and there was no other girl in Oakville for him but Bessie.  In due time, he had gone with her to yonder meeting house to be married.  It had all seemed to come about as a matter of course.  He scarcely knew when he became formally engaged.  They "kept company" together steadfastly for a suitable period, and that seemed to settle it in their own and everybody else's mind.

There had been no change in Bessie's quiet, constant soul.  After her words under the shadow of the pine tree she seemed to find it difficult to speak of religious subjects, even to her husband; but her simple faith had been unwavering, and she had entered into rest without fear or misgiving.

Not so her husband.  He had his spiritual ups and downs, but, like herself, was reticent.  While she lived, only a heavy storm kept them from "going to meeting," but with Holcroft worship was often little more than a form, his mind being on the farm and its interests.  Parents and relatives had died, and the habit of seclusion from neighborhood and church life had grown upon them gradually and almost unconsciously.

For a long time after his wife's death Holcroft had felt that he did not wish to see anyone who would make references to his loss.

He shrank from formal condolences as he would from the touch of a diseased nerve.  When the minister called, he listened politely but silently to a general exhortation; then muttered, when left alone, "It's all as he says, I suppose; but somehow his words are like the medicines Bessie took--they don't do any good."

He kept up the form of his faith and a certain vague hope until the night on which he drove forth the Irish revelers from his home.  In remembrance of his rage and profanity on that occasion, he silently and in dreary misgiving concluded that he should not, even to himself, keep up the pretense of religion any longer. "I've fallen from grace--that is, if I ever had any"--was a thought which did much to rob him of courage to meet his other trials.  Whenever he dwelt on these subjects, doubts, perplexities, and resentment at his misfortunes so thronged his mind that he was appalled; so he strove to occupy himself with the immediate present.

Today, however, in recalling the past, his thoughts would question the future and the outcome of his experiences.  In accordance with his simple, downright nature, he muttered, "I might as well face the truth and have done with it.  I don't know whether I'll ever see my wife again or not; I don't know whether God is for me or against me.  Sometimes, I half think there isn't any God.  I don't know what will become of me when I die.  I'm sure of only one thing--while I do live I could take comfort in working the old place."

In brief, without ever having heard of the term, he was an agnostic, but not one of the self-complacent, superior type who fancy that they have developed themselves beyond the trammels of faith and are ever ready to make the world aware of their progress.

At last he recognized that his long reverie was leading to despondency and weakness; he rose, shook himself half angrily, and strode toward the house. "I'm here, and here I'm going to stay," he growled. "As long as I'm on my own land, it's nobody's business what I am or how I feel.  If I can't get decent, sensible women help, I'll close up my dairy and live here alone.  I certainly can make enough to support myself."

Jane met him with a summons to dinner, looking apprehensively at his stern, gloomy face.  Mrs. Mumpson did not appear. "Call her," he said curtly.

The literal Jane returned from the parlor and said unsympathetically, "She's got a hank'chif to her eyes and says she don't want no dinner."

"Very well," he replied, much relieved.

Apparently he did not want much dinner, either, for he soon started out again.  Mrs. Wiggins was not utterly wanting in the intuitions of her sex, and said nothing to break in upon her master's abstraction.

In the afternoon Holcroft visited every nook and corner of his farm, laying out, he hoped, so much occupation for both hands and thoughts as to render him proof against domestic tribulations.

He had not been gone long before Mrs. Mumpson called in a plaintive voice, "Jane!"

The child entered the parlor warily, keeping open a line of retreat to the door. "You need not fear me," said her mother, rocking pathetically. "My feelings are so hurt and crushed that I can only bemoan the wrongs from which I suffer.  You little know, Jane, you little know a mother's heart."

"No," assented Jane. "I dunno nothin' about............