I wondered what had come to Father. And how I did wonder when after supper Sam brought, not a pack of cards, but the big Bible which used to lie in the hall window with such heaps of dust on it, and he and Maria and Bessy sat down on the settle at the end of the hall, and Father, in a voice which trembled a little, read a Psalm, and then we knelt down, and said the Confession, and the General Thanksgiving, and the Lord’s Prayer. I looked at my Aunt Kezia, and saw that this was nothing new to her. And then I remembered all at once that she had hinted at something which we should see when we came home, and had bidden us keep our eyes open.
The pack of cards did not come out at all.
The next morning I was the first to come down. I found Sam setting the table in the parlour. We exchanged good-morrows, and Sam hoped I was not very tired with the journey. Then he said, without looking up, as he went on with his work—
“Ye’ll ha’e found some changes here, I’m thinking, Miss.”
“I saw one last night, Sam,” said I, smiling.
“There’s mair nor ane,” he replied. “There’s three things i’ this warld that can ne’er lie hidden: ye may try to cover them up, but they’ll ay out, sooner or later. And that’s blood, and truth, and the grace o’ God.”
“I am not so sure the truth of things always comes out, Sam,” said I.
“Ye’ve no been sae lang i’ this warld as me, Miss Cary,” said Sam. “And ’deed, sometimes ’tis a lang while first. But the grace o’ God shows up quick, mostly. ’Tis its nature to be hard at wark. Ye’ll no put barm into a batch o’ flour, and ha’e it lying idle. And the kingdom o’ Heaven is like unto leaven: it maun wark. Ay, who shall let it?”
“Is Mr Liversedge well liked, Sam?” I asked, when I had thought a little.
“He’s weel eneuch liked o’ them as is weel liking,” said Sam, setting his forks in their places. “The angels like him, I’ve nae doubt; and the lost sheep like him: but he does nae gang doun sae weel wi’ the ninety and nine. They’d hae him a bit harder on the sinners, and a bit safter wi’ the saints—specially wi’ theirsels, wha are the vara crown and flower o’ a’ the saints, and ne’er were sinners—no to speak o’, ye ken, and outside the responses. And he disna gang saft and slippy doun their throats, as they’d ha’e him, but he is just main hard on ’em. He tells ’em gin they’re saints they suld live like saints, and they’d like the repute o’ being saints without the fash o’ living. He did himsel a main deal o’ harm wi’ sic-like by a discourse some time gane—ye’ll judge what like it was when I tell ye the Scripture it was on: ‘He that saith he abideth in Him ought himself also so to walk even as He walked.’ And there’s a gey lot of folks i’ this warld ’d like vara weel to abide, but they’re a hantle too lazy to walk. And the minister, he comes and stirs ’em up wi’ the staff o’ the Word, and bids ’em get up and gang their ways, and no keep sat down o’ the promises, divertin’ theirsels wi’ watching ither folk trip. He’s vara legal, Miss Cary, is the minister; he reckons folk suld be washed all o’er, and no just dip their tongues in the fountain, and keep their hearts out. He disna make much count o’ giving the Lord your tongue, and ay hauding the De’il by the hand ahint your back. And the o’er gude folks disna like that. They’d liever keep friendly wi’ baith.”