"Mr. Walden is jest one of the finest men God ever made, Miss," she said, with solemnity and unction--"You may take my word for it! He's that good, that as we often sez, if m'appen there ain't no saint in the Sarky an' nowt but dust, we've got a real live saint walkin' free among us as is far more 'spectable to look at in his plain coat an' trousers than they monks an' friars in the picter-books wi' ropes around their waistses an' bald crowns, which ain't no sign to me o' bein' full o' grace, but rather loss of 'air,--an' which you will presently see yourself, Miss, as 'ow Mr. Walden's done the church beautiful, like a dream, as all the visitors sez, which there isn't its like in all England--an' he's jest a father to the village an' friends with every man, woman, an' child in it, an' grudges nothink to 'elp in cases deservin', an' works like a nigger, he do, for the school, which if he'd 'ad a wife it might a' been better an' it might a' been worse, the Lord only knows, for no woman would a' come up 'ere an' stood that patient watchin' me an' my work, an' I tell you truly, Miss Maryllia, that when your boxes came an' I had to unpack 'em an' sort the clothes in 'em, I sent for Passon Walden jest to show 'im that I felt my 'sponsibility, an' he sez, sez he: 'You go on doin' your duty, Missis Spruce, an' your lady will be all right'--an' though I begged 'im to stop, he wouldn't while I was a- shakin' out your dresses with Nancy--" Here she was interrupted by a ringing peal of laughter from Maryllia, who, running up to her, put a little hand on her mouth. "Stop, stop, Spruce!" she exclaimed--"Oh dear, oh dear I Do you think I can understand all this? Did you show the parson my clothes- -actually? You did!" For Mrs. Spruce nodded violently in the affirmative. "Good gracious! What a perfectly dreadful thing to do!" And she laughed again. "And what is the saint in the Sarky?" Here she removed her hand from the mouth she was guarding. "Say it in one word, if you can,--what is the Sarky?" "It's in the church,"--said Mrs. Spruce, dauntlessly proceeding with her flow of narrative, and encouraged thereto by the sparkling mirth in her mistress's face--"We calls it Sarky for short. Josey Letherbarrow, what reads, an' 'as larnin', calls it the Sarky Fagus, an' my Kitty, she's studied at the school, an' SHE sez 'it's Sar-KO- fagus, mother,' which it may be or it mayn't, for the schools don't know more than the public-'ouses in my opinion,--leastways it's a great long white coffin what's supposed to 'ave the body of a saint inside it, an' Mr. Walden he discovered it when he was rebuildin' the church, an' when the Bishop come to conskrate it, he sez 'twas a saint in there an' that's why the village is called St. Rest--but you'll find it all out yourself. Miss, an' as I sez an' I don't care who 'ears me, the real saint ain't in the Sarky at all,--it's just Mr. Walden himself,--" Again Maryllia's hand closed her mouth.