“No, I think not; but the happy look at things upon their own level—the earth-level; the sorrowful look up.”
Not far from Martha’s garden gate they met the Methodist preacher. He was going to see Martha, but hearing of her wish to be alone, he turned and walked with Phyllis and Elizabeth toward the park. He was a little man, with an unworldly air, and very clear truthful eyes. People came to their cottage doors and looked curiously at the trio, as they went slowly toward the hall, the preacher between the girls, and talking earnestly to them.
“Well I nivver!” said old Peggy Howarth, nodding her head wisely, “what does ta think o’ that, Jane Sykes?”
“It beats ivery thing! There’s Ezra Dixon. He’s on his way to a class-meeting, I’ll lay thee owt ta likes; Ezra!”
“Well, woman! What does ta want?”
“Does ta see Miss Hallam and that American lass wi’ t’ preacher?”
“For sure I do. They’re in varry good company.”
“They’ll hev been at Martha Cravens, depend on’t. They say Martha taks it varry quiet like.”
“Ay, she’s none o’ them as whimpers and whines. Now if it wer’ thee, Peggy, thou’d worrit, and better worrit; as if worritting wer’ thy trade, and thou hed to work at it for thy victuals. Martha’s none like that. Is ta going to thy class to-night?”
“Nay, then, I’m not going.”