“As true a Christian your master was as ever walked in a garden, however,” declared Mr. Smallridge. “I hope the new parson will prove so gude.” “I be gwaine to see him this very day,” answered Joseph. “’Tis my hope he’ll take me on to the vicarage, for the place wouldn’t be the place without me up theer. I knaw every blade of grass an’ gooseberry bush in it—a very butivul kitchen-garden ’tis too.” “An’ well out of sight of the sitting-room windows,” said Matthew Smallridge, grimly. “As a kitchen-garden should be,” assented Joseph. “Gude times they was,” he continued, “an’ I only hopes the Reverend Truman have got such a fine garden an’ such a’ honest man in it as he had here.” “But no li’l maid to go round with him, poor soul!” “A bright child his darter was. Impatient also—like youth ever is. Her’d bring me plants to coddle, an’ expect me to waste my precious time looking after her rubbish. Then a thing would be struck for death, along of want of water or what not, an’ her’d come to me wi’ her li’l face all clouded. ‘Can’t ’e make it well again, Joseph?’ her’d say; an’ I’d say, ‘No, missy; ’tis all up wi’ thicky geranium,’ or whatever ’twas. ‘’Tis gwaine home.’ An’ her’d stamp her li’l foot so savage an’ ferocious, an’ say, `But it _mustn’t_ go home! I don’t _want_ it to go home! ’Tis your business not to let it go home!’ Poor little maiden!” “An’ now she’ve gone home herself.” “Ess. She didn’t mean to be rude to an auld man. But of course I couldn’t be bothered with such trash. As to watering, I always leave it to Nature. Who be us that we should knaw better what things want than her do?” “Nature caan’t water green stuff onder glass, can her?” “No; then why put it onder glass? All this here talk ’bout glass houses is vanity an’ flying in the face of Providence. If ’twas meant that grapes an’ tree-ferns an’ ’zaleas an’ hothouse stuff was to flourish in England, they’d be here doing of it on every mountain-side. Us takes too much ’pon ourselves. Same with prayers. What be prayer most times but trying to get the A’mighty round to our way of thinking? We’m too busy,—most of us,—an’ that’s the truth.” “Jimmery!” exclaimed Matthew. “I never did in all my born days hear tell of the like o’ you! You won’t work an’ you won’t pray—’tis terrible. All the same, if you don’t get the vicarage again, an’ come as under-gardener to the squire, as he’ve offered you, I tell you frankly, friends though we be, that you’ll have to work harder than you’ve worked for twenty years.” “I know it very well, Matt,” said Mr. Hannaford. “Your way an’ mine be different, root an’ branch; an’ I pray God as I may not have to come under you, for I’d hate it properly, an’ that’s the truth. An’ I do work, an’ I do pray likewise; an’ I’d back my chance of going up aloft with my last shirt, if there was any to take the bet. You’m too self-righteous along of your high wages—”