Try Christ, Joan dearie,
an' you'll feel what you've never felt yet. I knaw, as put my 'and in His
when 'twas plump an' young as yourn. An' He holds it yet, now 'tis
shriveled an' crooked wi' rheumatics. He holds it. Iss, He do."
The old man put out his hand to Joan as he spoke and she took it between
her own and kissed it.
"You'm very good," she said, "an' you'm wise 'cause you'm auld an' have
seen many years. I prayed to Saint Madern to hear me not long since, an' I
bathed in his waters, an' went home happy. But awnly the birds an' the
rabbits heard me. An' next day faither turned me out o' his house an'
counted me numbered for hell."
"Saints be very well, but 'tedn' in 'cordance with what we'm tawld nowadays
to pray to any but the Lard direct."
He pleaded long and patiently, humbly praying for the religion which had
lightened his own road. The thought of his vast experience and the
spectacle of his own blameless and simple life, as she reviewed it, made
Joan relent at last. The great loneliness of her heart yearned for
something to fill it. Man had failed her, saints had failed her; Nature had
turned cold; and Uncle Chirgwin held out a great promise.
"Ban't no sort o' use, I'm thinkin'," she said at last, "but if you'm that
set 'pon it I'll do your wish. I owe you that an' more'n that. Iss, I'll
come along wi' you an' Mary to Sancreed church next Sunday. 'Tis lil enough
to do for wan as have done so much for me.
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