A _very_ great deal of money!" he repeated, slowly,--"Now I wonder, Mr.Reay, what you would do with a million ?--two millions ?--three millions ?--four millions ?"-- "Stop, stop, old David!"-- interrupted Twitt, suddenly holding up his hand--"Ye takes my breath away!" They all laughed, Reay's hearty tones ringing above the rest.
"Oh, I should know what to do with them!"-- he said; "but I wouldn't spend them on my own selfish pleasures--that I swear! For one thing, I'd run a daily newspaper on _honest_ lines----" "It wouldn't sell!" observed Helmsley, drily.
"It would--it _should_!" declared Reay--"And I'd tell the people the truth of things,--I'd expose every financial fraud I could find----" "And you'd live in the law-courts, I fear!" said Mr.Bunce, gravely shaking his head--"We may be perfectly certain, I think--may we not, David ?--that the law-courts would be Mr.Reay's permanent address ?" They laughed again, and the conversation turned to other topics, though its tenor was not forgotten by anyone, least of all by Helmsley, who sat very silent for a long time afterwards, thinking deeply, and seeing in his thoughts various channels of usefulness to the world and the world's progress, which he had missed, but which others after him would find.
Meanwhile Weircombe suffered a kind of moral convulsion in the advent of the Reverend Mr.Arbroath, who arrived to "take duty" in the absence of its legitimate pastor.

He descended upon the tiny place like an embodied black whirlwind, bringing his wife with him, a lady whose facial lineaments bore the strangest and most remarkable resemblance to those of a china cat; not a natural cat, because there is something soft and appealing about a real "pussy,"-- whereas Mrs.Arbroath's countenance was cold and hard and shiny, like porcelain, and her smile was precisely that of the immovable and ruthless-looking animal designed long ago by old-time potters and named "Cheshire." Her eyes were similar to the eyes of that malevolent china creature--and when she spoke, her voice had the shrill tone which was but a few notes off the actual "_me-iau_" of an angry "Tom." Within a few days after their arrival, every cottage in the "coombe" had been "visited," and both Mr.and Mrs.Arbroath had made up their minds as to the neglected, wholly unspiritual and unregenerate nature of the little flock whom they had offered, for sake of their own health and advantage, to tend.

The villagers had received them civilly, but without enthusiasm.

When tackled on the subject of their religious opinions, most of them declined to answer, except Mr.Twitt, who, fixing a filmy eye sternly on the plain and gloomy face of Mr.Arbroath, said emphatically: "We aint no 'Igh Jinks!" "What do you mean, my man ?" demanded Arbroath, with a dark smile.
"I mean what I sez"-- rejoined Twitt--"I've been stonemason 'ere goin' on now for thirty odd years an' it's allus been the same 'ere--no 'Igh Jinks.

Purcessin an' vestiments"-- here Twitt spread out a broad dirty thumb and dumped it down with each word into the palm of his other hand--"candles, crosses, bobbins an' bowins--them's what we calls 'Igh Jinks, an' I make so bold as to say that if ye gets 'em up 'ere, Mr.
Arbroath, ye'll be mighty sorry for yourself!" "I shall conduct the services as I please!" said Arbroath.