“What about the vicar?” he remarked as he returned.
Although Frankie did not go to church or Sunday School, the day school that he had attended was that attached to the parish church, and the vicar was in the habit of looking in occasionally.
“Ah, he really is one of those who live without doing any necessary work, and of all the people who do nothing, the vicar is one of the very worst.”
Frankie looked up at his mother with some surprise, not because he entertained any very high opinion of clergymen in general, for, having been an attentive listener to many conversations between his parents, he had of course assimilated their opinions as far as his infant understanding permitted, but because at the school the scholars were taught to regard the gentleman in question with the most profound reverence and respect.
“Why, Mum?” he asked.
“For this reason, dearie. You know that all the beautiful things which the people who do nothing have are made by the people who work, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And you know that those who work have to eat the very worst food, and wear the very worst clothes, and live in the very worst homes.”
“Yes,” said Frankie.
“And sometimes they have nothing to eat at all, and no clothes to wear except rags, and even no homes to live in.”