I b'longs to no parish, an' aint under you no more than Tom o' the Gleam be, an' we both thanks the Lord for't! An' I'm earnin' a livin' my own way an' bein' a benefit to the sick an' sorry, which aint so far from proper Christianity.

Lor', Parson Arbroath! I wonder ye aint more 'uman like, seein' as yer fav'rite gel in the village was arskin' me t'other day if I 'adn't any yerb for to make a love-charm.

'Love-charm!' sez I--'what does ye want that for, my gel ?' An' she up an' she sez--'I'd like to make Parson Arbroath eat it!' Hor--er--hor--er--hor--er! 'I'd like to make Parson Arbroath eat it!' sez she.

An' she's a foine strappin' wench, too!--'Ullo, Parson! Goin' ?" The door slammed furiously,--Arbroath had suddenly lost his dignity and temper together.

Peke's raillery proved too much for him, and amid the loud guffaws of "Feathery" Joltram, Bill Bush and the rest, he beat a hasty retreat, and they heard his heavy footsteps go hurriedly across the passage of the "Trusty Man," and pass out into the road beyond.
Roars of laughter accompanied his departure, and Peke looked round with a smile of triumph.
"It's just like a witch-spell!" he declared.