“I should think very highly of your powers of persuasion.”
Not the least daunted by his cousin's misgivings, Tom started in quest of Simon, and found him at work in front of the greenhouse, surrounded by many small pots and heaps of finely sifted mould, and absorbed in his occupation.
Simon was a rough, stolid Berkshire rustic, somewhat of a tyrant in the bosom of his family, an unmanageable servant, a cross-grained acquaintance; as a citizen, stiff-necked, and a grumbler, who thought that nothing ever went right in the parish; but, withal, a thoroughly honest worker; and, when allowed to go his own way—and no other way would he go, as his mistress had long since discovered—there was no man who earned his daily bread more honestly. He took a pride in his work, and the Rectory garden was always trim and well kept, and the beds bright with flowers from early spring till late autumn.
He was absorbed in what he was about, and Tom came up close to him without attracting the least sign of recognition; so he stopped, and opened the conversation.
“Good day, Simon; it's a pleasure to see a garden looking so gay as yours.”
Simon looked up from his work, and, when he saw who it was, touched his battered old hat, and answered,—
“Mornin' sir! Ees, you finds me allus in blume”
“Indeed I do, Simon; but how do you manage it? I should like to tell my father's gardener.”
“'Tis no use to tell un if a haven't found out for hisself. 'Tis nothing but lookin' a bit forrard and farm-yard stuff as does it.”
“Well, there's plenty of farm-yard stuff at home, and yet, somehow, we never look half so bright as you do.”