The old man shook his head sadly.
“No, no—no, no,” he said. “A weak, foolish, indulgent man, Mr Ross, whom his Master will weigh in the balance and find wanting. But I have tried to do my best—weakly, Mr Ross, but weakly. I fear that my trumpet has given forth but an uncertain sound.”
Just then an idea seemed to strike the old man, who smiled pleasantly, set his basket down, took another from a nail, and then snipped more leaves, and gazed up at his bunches for a few moments, his handsome old face being a study as his eyes wandered from cane to cane.
Suddenly his face lit up more and more, and he turned to Luke.
“You shall move the steps for me,” he said. “Just there, under that large bunch.”
Luke obeyed, wondering, and the old man then handed him the basket and scissors.
“You shall cut that bunch for me, Mr Ross, please.”
“Really, sir,—” began Luke.
“Please oblige me, Mr Ross. You saw how I did it. I will hold the steps; you shall not fall.”
Luke smiled as he thought of the risk; and then, to humour the old man, he mounted, the Rector watching him intently.