"That's what I said at the time, an' that's what I've allus thought!"--declared Twitt--"Why that little 'Kiddie' child o' Tom's was the playfullest, prettiest little rogue ye'd see in a hundred mile or more! 'Oldin' out a posy o' flowers to a motor-car, poor little innercent! It might as well 'ave 'eld out flowers to the devil!--though my own opinion is as the devil 'imself wouldn't 'a ridden down a child. But a motorin' lord o' these days is neither man nor beast nor devil,--'e's a somethin' altogether _on_human--_on_human out an' out,--a thing wi' goggles over his eyes an' no 'art in his body, which we aint iver seen in this poor old world afore. Thanks be to the Lord no motors can ever come into Weircombe,--they tears round an' round by another road, an' we neither sees, 'ears, nor smells 'em, for which I often sez to my wife--'O be joyful in the Lord all ye lands; serve the Lord with gladness an' come before His presence with a song!' An' she ups an' sez--'Don't be blaspheemous, Twitt,--I'll tell parson'--an' I sez--'Tell 'im, old 'ooman, if ye likes!' An' when she tells 'im, 'e smiles nice an' kind, an' sez--'It's quite lawful, Mrs. Twitt, to quote Scriptural thanksgiving on all _necessary_ occasions!' E's a good little chap, our parson, but 'e's that weak on his chest an' ailing that 'e's goin' away this year to Madeira for rest and warm--an' a blessid old Timp'rance raskill's coming to take dooty in 'is place. Ah!--none of us Weircombe folk 'ill be very reg'lar church-goers while Mr. Arbroath's here." Helmsley started slightly. "Arbroath? I've seen that man." 'Ave ye? Well, ye 'aven't seen no beauty!" And Twitt gave vent to a chuckling laugh--"'E'll be startin' 'is 'Igh Jink purcessions an' vestiments in our plain little church up yonder, an' by the Lord, 'e'll 'ave to purcess an' vestiment by 'isself, for Weircombe wont 'elp 'im. We aint none of us 'Igh Jink folks." "Is that your name for High Church?" asked Helmsley, amused.