worry or long sickness. The name of the taller man was Peter Halsey, and
Joseph Batts was his companion.

It was a fine July evening, with a cold north wind blowing from the plain
which lay stretched to their right. Under the unclouded sun, which by its
own "sun-time" had only reached half-past four in the afternoon, though
the clock in the village church had already struck half-past five, the
air was dry and parching, and the fields all round, the road itself, and
the dusty hedges showed signs of long drought.

"It du want rain," said Peter Halsey, looking at a crop of oats through
an open gate, "it du want rain--_bad_."

"Aye!" said the other, "that it du. Muster Shenstone had better 'a read
the prayer for rain lasst Sunday, I'm thinkin', than all them long ones
as ee _did_ read."

Halsey was silent a moment, his half-smiling eyes glancing from side to
side. At last he said slowly,--

"We du be prayin' a lot about ower sins, and Muster Shenstone is allus
preachin' about 'em. But it's the sins o' the _Garmins_ I be thinkin' of.
If it hadn't a bin for the sins o' the Garmins my Tom wouldn't ha' lost
'is right hand."

"An' ower Jim wouldn't be goin' into them trenches next November as ever
is," put in Batts. "It's the sins o' the Garmins as ha' done _that_, an'
nothin' as you or I ha' done, Peter."

Halsey shook his head assentingly.