They were
maid-servants and men-servants from Rodchurch, old people and quite
young people, a few laborers and cottage-women; and they all walked
slowly, not at first talking to one another, but smiling with
introspective vagueness. Dale observed their decent costume, their
sober deportment, and leisurely gait, observed also a striking
similarity in the expression of all the faces. They were like people
who unwillingly awake and struggle to recall every detail of the dream
they are being forced to relinquish. Observing them thus, one could
not fail to understand that, at this moment at least, they all firmly
believed that their just-finished song had been heard a very, very
long way up.
The road was empty again when the pastor came out and locked the
chapel door behind him. He spoke to Dale with a gentle cheerfulness.
"Good day, friend Dale."
Dale, not too well pleased with this easy and familiar mode of
address, replied stiffly.
"I wish you good day, Mr. Osborn."
"Good day. God's day. That's what it meant in the beginning, Mr.
Dale."
And Dale, resuming his seat on the gate, watched Mr. Osborn go
plodding away toward Vine-Pits and the Cross Roads. This pastor, who
had succeeded old Melling a few years ago, was a short, bearded man of
sixty, and he lived in lodgings on the outskirts of Rodchurch.
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