“Really,” said the rector’s wife, “it is a satisfaction to give Sela any of the children’s old garments. She is wonderful with her needle. I did feel almost ashamed to let her have little Mary’s old school-dress, it was so frayed, so spotted, and so untidy. And will you believe it—her child was at church on Sunday in that identical gown! She had turned it, and contrived it in such a manner, that I could hardly believe my eyes. That is a woman to help, because every little help is put out to usury. But Timothy; oh, what a man he is!” One Sunday, after service, the Squire awaited the rector as he left the church. No sooner had the latter descended the avenue and the churchyard steps, than the Squire—without any other salutation than, “I say! I say!”—plunged into the matter that occupied his mind, and of which he desired to disburden himself. “Rector, that Timothy Slouch.” “Well, Squire?” “I say—I say, you know that I set him the rhododendrons to pin down.” “I know it.” “Will you believe me—he has made a mess of the job.” “I can believe a good deal of Slouch.” “He has actually split them so as to get the refractory branches down, and where he has pegged, and not torn asunder, has done it so inefficiently that when his work is effected, in twenty-five minutes they have slipped their pegs out, and are erect as before.” “How tiresome!” “Yes, and he has half-ruined some of my choicest and most expensive varieties. He has riven and wrenched them about and knocked off the flowering buds. I was so angry I dismissed him. Not another day’s work shall he have from me. I am sorry—for Sela’s sake. But it cannot be helped.” For three weeks Tim lounged about, said he was looking for work; but if he did, looked for it in the wrong quarters. Then he appeared before the rector—not of his own parish, but the parson whose wife had befriended Sela, and said that he had heard of work in South Wales. He had a cousin there who was in a colliery, and who wrote that there was always a place for a handy man, and above all for a blacksmith. “Well,” said the rector hesitatingly—he saw what Tim was aiming at—“but exactly, are you the handy man?” “I can turn my hand to anything. I have been in so many different situations. I have been blacksmith, and I have done farm-work, and recently, I may say, I have been a gardener.” “I daresay you can turn your hand to anything, but can you keep it where turned?” “One can but try. Luck so far has been against me. My notion is, sir, if you would draw me up a brief, I will try to collect money to take me to Wales, and when there and have got a situation, I will send for my wife and children to live there with me; one must first have a nest into which to put one’s doves.” “Quite so. Well, we will give you one chance more.” So the rector drew out a brief. It was cautiously worded; it contained a statement in accordance with Timothy’s representations.