“Mis’ Nasmyth, I ain’t a professor. I’m one of the world’s people Deacon Fish tells about.”
Janet looked grave.
“Come now, Mis’ Nasmyth, you don’t mean to say you thought I was one of the good ones?”
“You ought to be,” said she, gravely.
“Well,—yes, I suppose I ought to. But after all, I guess there ain’t a great sight of difference between folks,—leastways, between Merleville folks. I know all about them. I was the first white child born in the town, I was raised here, and in some way or other, I’m related to most folks in town, and I ought to know them all pretty well by this time. Except on Sundays, I expect they’re all pretty much so. It wouldn’t do to tell round, but there are some of the world’s people, that I’d full as lief do business with, as with most of the professors. Now that’s a fact.”
“You’re no’ far wrong there, I daresay,” said Janet, with emphasis. “But that’s neither here nor there, as far as your duty is concerned, as you weel ken.”
“No,—I don’t know as it is. But it kind o’ makes me feel as though there wasn’t much in religion, anyway.”
Janet looked mystified. Mr Snow continued.
“Well now, see here, I’ll tell you just how it is. There ain’t one of them that don’t think I’m a sinner of the worst kind—gospel hardened. They’ve about given me up, I know they have. Well now, let alone the talk, I don’t believe there’s a mite of difference, between me, and the most of them, and the Lord knows I’m bad enough. And so you see, I’ve about come to the conclusion, that if there is such a thing as religion, I haven’t never come across the real article.”
“That’s like enough,” said Janet, with a groan. “I canna say that I have seen muckle o’ it myself in this town, out of our own house. But I canna see that that need be any excuse to you. You have aye the word.”