"You're a smart chap!" said Bainton at last, breaking the mystic spell and rising to take his leave--"An' I don't want to argify with ye, for I'spect you're about right in what you sez about Sunday ways in town--but I tell ye what, young feller!--you've got to 'ave a deal o' patience an' a deal o' pity for they poor starveling sinners wot gits boxed up in cities an' never ain't got no room to look at the sky, or see the wide fields with all the daisies blowin' open to the sun. No wonder they're so took up wi' their scinetific muddlins over worms an' microbes an' sich-like, as to 'ave forgot what the Almighty is doin' in the workin' o' the Universe,--but it's onny jest like poor prisiners in a cell wot walks up an' down, up an' down, countin' the stones in the wall with scinetific multiplication-like, an' 'splainin' to their poor lonely selves as how many stones makes a square foot, an' so many square feet makes a square yard, an' on they goes a-walkin' their mis'able little round an' countin' their mis'able little sums, an' all the time just outside the prison the flowers is all bloomin' wild an' the birds singin', an' the blue sky over it all with God smilin' behind it. That's 'ow 'tis, Mr. Bennett!" and Bainton looked into the lining of his cap as was his wont before he put it on his head--"I believe all you say right enough, an' it don't put me out nohow--I've seen too much o' natur to be shook off my 'old on the Almighty--for there's no worm wot ain't sure of a rose or some kind o' flower an' fruit somewhere, though m'appen the poor blind thing don't know where to find it. It's case o' leadin' on, an' guidin' beyond our knowledge, Mr. Bennett,--an' that's wot Passon Walden tells us. HE don't bother us wi' no 'hows' nor 'whys' nor 'wherefores'--he says we can FEEL God with us in our daily work, an' so we can, if we've a mind to! Daily work and common things shows Him to us,--why look there!"-- here he pulled from his pocket a small paper-bag, and opening it, showed some dry loose seed--"There ain't nothin' commoner than that! That's pansy seed--a special stock too,--well now, if you didn't know how common it is, wouldn't it seem a miracle as wonderful as any in the Testymen, that out o' that handful o' dust like, the finest flowers of purple an' yellow will come?--ay! some o' them two to three inches across, an' every petal like velvet an' silk! If so be you don't b'lieve in a God, Mr. Bennett, owin' to town opinions, you try the gardenin' business! That'll make a man of ye! I allus sez if Adam had stuck to the gardenin' business an' left the tailorin' trade alone we'd have all been in Eden now!"