“If I thought a layman had less to thank God for than a clergyman, I should begin to doubt whether either had anything to thank him for. Why, sir Wilton, I find everything a blessing! I thank God I am a poor man. I thank him for every good book I fall in with. I thank him when a child smiles to me. I thank him when the sun rises or the wind blows on me. Every day I am so happy, or at least so peaceful, or at the worst so hopeful, that my very consciousness is a thanksgiving.”
“Do you thank him for your wife, Mr. Wingfold?”
“Every day of my existence.”
The baronet stared at him a moment, then turned to his son.
“Richard,” he said, “you had better make up your mind to go into the church! You hear Mr. Wingfold! I shouldn't like it myself; I should have to be at my prayers all day!”
“Ah, sir Wilton, it doesn't take time to thank God! It only takes eternity.”
Sir Wilton stared. He did not understand.
“Ring the bell, will you!” he said. “The fellow seems to have gone to sleep.”
Richard obeyed, and not a word was spoken until the man appeared.
“Wilkins,” said his master, “go to my lady, and say I beg the favour of her presence in the library for a moment.”