“Hoot awa’, we a’ ha’e our bees in our bonnets, Miss Cary,” said the old woman, a trifle testily. “The minister’s no pairfect, I daur say. But he’s as gran’ at praying as John Knox himself and he gars ye feel the loue and loueliness o’ Christ like Maister Rutherford did. And sae lang ’s he’ll do that, I’m no like to quarrel wi’ him, if he do ha’e a fancy for lawn sleeves and siccan rubbish, I wish him better sense, that’s a’. Maybe he’ll ha’e it ane o’ thae days.”
I cannot understand Hatty as she is now. For a while after that affair with the Crosslands she was just like a drooping, broken-down flower; all her pertness, and even her brightness, completely gone. Now that is changed, and she has become, not pert again, but hard—hard and bitter. Nobody can do anything to suit her, and she says things now and then which make me jump. Things, I mean, as if she believed nothing and cared for nobody. When Hatty speaks in that way, I often see my Aunt Kezia looking at her with a strange light in her eyes, which seems to be half pain and half hopefulness. Mr Liversedge, I fancy, is studying her; and I am not sure that he knows what to make of her.
Yesterday evening, Fanny and Ambrose came in and sat a while. Fanny is ever so much improved. She has brightened up, and lost much of that languid, limp, fanciful way she used to have; and, instead of writing odes to the stars, she seems to take an interest in her poultry-yard and dairy. My Aunt Kezia says Fanny wanted an object in life, and I suppose she has it now.
When they had been there about an hour, Mr Liversedge came in. He does not visit Sophy often; I fancy he is too busy; but Tuesday evening is usually his leisure time, so far as he can be said to have one, and he generally spends it here when he can. He and Ambrose presently fell into discourse upon the parish, and somehow they got to talking of what a clergyman’s duties were. Ambrose thought if he baptised and married and buried people, and administered the sacrament four times a year, and preached every month or so, and went to see sick people when they sent for him, he had done all that could be required, and might quite reasonably spend the rest of his time in hunting either foxes or Latin and Greek, according as his liking led him.
“You think Christ spent His life so?” asked Mr Liversedge, in that very quiet tone in which he says his sharpest things, and which reminds me so often of Colonel Keith.
Ambrose looked as if he did not know what to say; and before he had found out, Mr Liversedge went on,—
“Because, you see, He left me an example, that I should follow His steps.”
“Mr Liversedge, I thought you were orthodox.”
“I certainly should have thought so, as long as I quoted Scripture,” said the Vicar.