They went, indeed, these humble folk, because they couldn’t help it.  And they couldn’t help it because there was a man in that chapel who drew them as surely as the North Pole draws the magnetic needle.  And he drew them because there was Something in him that would not be denied, Something that called to their tired and thirsting spirits, called and comforted.  It was not possible to say what that Something was; but this man had it, and it was very rare.  And that tall daughter of his, who rarely smiled, and never grieved, who was always strong, quiet, and equable, going about her work regular as the seasons, possessed it, too.

Everybody, indeed, respected Patience Longstaffe, if few loved her.

She was long past thirty, and people were beginning to say that she had dedicated herself to virginity, when to the amazement of all it was announced that she would marry Mat Woodburn, the trainer, twenty years her senior.

The Duke, of whose many failings lack of courage was not one, asked her boldly why she was doing it.

Her answer was as simple as herself.

“He’s a good man,” she said.

It was a new and somewhat surprising light on the character of Old Mat, but the Duke accepted it without demur.

“She’s right,” he said at the club at Lewes.  “Mat’s a rogue, but he’s not a wrong ’un.”  And with his unequalled experience of both classes, the old peer had every right to speak.

The vulgar-minded, who make the majority of every class in every country, thought that Preacher Joe would make trouble, and looked forward hopefully to a row.  For at least a month after the announcement every drawing-room and public-house in South Sussex was rife with malicious and sometimes amusing stories.  The authors of them were doomed to disappointment.  Not only was Mr. Longstaffe quietly and obviously happy, but he and his son-in-law, who was but five years his junior, showed themselves to be unusually good friends.

And there was no doubt the marriage was a success.  The content on Patience Woodburn’s face was evidence enough of that.

How far the strange and apparently ill-assorted couple affected each other it was difficult to say.  Outwardly, at least, Old Mat remained Old Mat still, and Patience, although she became Ma Woodburn, went her strong, still way much as before her marriage.  Bred on the land and loving it, inheriting a wonderful natural way with stock of every kind, she was from the first her husband’s right hand, none the less real because unsuspected and to a great extent unseen.

She was never known to attend so much as a point-to-point, but when a colt wasn’t furnishing a-right, or a horse entered for a big event was not coming on as he should, it was Ma who was sent for and Ma who took the matter in hand.

“I’ve nothing against horses and racing,” she would say.  “God meant ’em to race and jump, I reck’n.  But I don’t think he meant us to bet and beer over ’em.”