the Methodist preacher came in to see my mother, and he asked me what was
the matter with me, and my mother answered for me that I had a bad head,
and he looked at me; and as my head was quite well by this time, I could
not help feeling guilty. And he saw my look, I suppose, sir, for I can't
account for what he said any other way; and he turned to me, and he said to
me, solemn-like, 'Is your head bad enough to send you to the Lord Jesus
to make you whole?' I could not speak a word, partly from bashfulness, I
suppose, for I was but ten years old. So he followed it up, as they say:
'Then you ought to be at school,' says he. I said nothing, because I
couldn't. But never since then have I given in as long as I could stand.
And I can stand now, and lift my hammer, too," he said, as he took the
horse-shoe from the forge, laid it on the anvil, and again made a nimbus of
coruscating iron.

"You are just the man I want," I said. "I've got a job for you, down to
Kilkhaven, as you say in these parts."

"What is it, sir? Something about the church? I should ha' thought the
church was all spick and span by this time."

"I see you know who I am," I said.

"Of course I do," he answered. "I don't go to church myself, being brought
up a Methodist; but anything that happens in the parish is known the next
day all over it."

"You won't mind doing my job though you are a Methodist, will you?" I
asked.

"Not I, sir. If I've read right, it's the fault of the Church that we don't