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"Good evenun', Parson"—"Evenun', Parson."

Respectful forelocks were pulled and aprons bobbed, while less respectful voices followed him, as he strode on without noticing either the forelocks or the aprons.

"Up in the clouds as ever."

"Or over the sea."

"Maybe un's thinking how to bring the King back."

"Such an old wagpasty 'ud never do it."

The voices came after him down the April wind, blowing with the cry of lambs and the rumble of a cart behind him, and meaning as little to him as either.

He thought: I do well to go. All the best men are going—the Archbishop's going. Soon they'll find there won't be a manjack of them to take the oath. And if we all go out, we take the Church of England with us. Anyway, we're the Church, and what's left's the schism. I'm wise to go. And I'll be glad . . . twenty years in a parish is too long. I'd like a change before I'm older—and a Bishopric, maybe . . . why not? I've never had a chance, buried in this hole. I was a fool ever to come into it. But now I go out. . . . Besides, it's against my conscience to take the oath. I swore faith to King James, and I'll never have William of Orange save as Regent. . . . My girls 'ull cackle like a yard of hens, but they'll be well enough at my brother's—for my brother must take us. And he must take my books. I pray he have room for my books, for I won't go without 'em. I do well to go. Now at last I've a chance to study, to prove myself a learned man. I shall have hours and days to read in, with none to call for the Parson. . . . But since I'm still the Parson I must look where I'm walking, for it seems I've passed the road. . . . La! La! I'm through the horns and along to Colespore . . . . Eh well, it won't be more than a yard or two to turn back.