Every one pitied Sela. She was as one born to trouble. She had a patient, suffering look about her brow and temples that told a tale of years of endurance and privation. But she did not murmur. She did not scold Tim. There was not the excuse for him, if he stayed at the tavern, that he was “jawed” at home.
“Really,” said the rector’s wife, “it is a satisfaction to give Sela any of the children’s old garments. She is wonderful with her needle. I did feel almost ashamed to let her have little Mary’s old school-dress, it was so frayed, so spotted, and so untidy. And will you believe it—her child was at church on Sunday in that identical gown! She had turned it, and contrived it in such a manner, that I could hardly believe my eyes. That is a woman to help, because every little help is put out to usury. But Timothy; oh, what a man he is!”
One Sunday, after service, the Squire awaited the rector as he left the church.
No sooner had the latter descended the avenue and the churchyard steps, than the Squire—without any other salutation than, “I say! I say!”—plunged into the matter that occupied his mind, and of which he desired to disburden himself.
“Rector, that Timothy Slouch.”
“Well, Squire?”
“I say—I say, you know that I set him the rhododendrons to pin down.”
“I know it.”
“Will you believe me—he has made a mess of the job.”