‘Relations of yours?’ asked Mr Holdsworth.

’No, sir—­only my mother’s second-cousins.  Yes, I suppose they are relations.  But I never saw them in my life.’

‘The Hope Farm is not a stone’s throw from here,’ said the officious landlord, going to the window.  ’If you carry your eye over yon bed of hollyhocks, over the damson-trees in the orchard yonder, you may see a stack of queer-like stone chimneys.  Them is the Hope Farm chimneys; it’s an old place, though Holman keeps it in good order.’

Mr Holdsworth had risen from the table with more promptitude than I had, and was standing by the window, looking.  At the landlord’s last words, he turned round, smiling,—­’It is not often that parsons know how to keep land in order, is it?’

’Beg pardon, sir, but I must speak as I find; and Minister Holman—­we call the Church clergyman here “parson,” sir; he would be a bit jealous if he heard a Dissenter called parson—­Minister Holman knows what he’s about as well as e’er a farmer in the neighbourhood.  He gives up five days a week to his own work, and two to the Lord’s; and it is difficult to say which he works hardest at.  He spends Saturday and Sunday a-writing sermons and a-visiting his flock at Hornby; and at five o’clock on Monday morning he’ll be guiding his plough in the Hope Farm yonder just as well as if he could neither read nor write.  But your dinner will be getting cold, gentlemen.’

So we went back to table.  After a while, Mr Holdsworth broke the silence:—­’If I were you, Manning, I’d look up these relations of yours.  You can go and see what they’re like while we re waiting for Dobson’s estimates, and I’ll smoke a cigar in the garden meanwhile.’

’Thank you, sir.  But I don’t know them, and I don’t think I want to know them.’

‘What did you ask all those questions for, then?’ said he, looking quickly up at me.  He had no notion of doing or saying things without a purpose.  I did not answer, so he continued,—­’Make up your mind, and go off and see what this farmer-minister is like, and come back and tell me—­I should like to hear.’

I was so in the habit of yielding to his authority, or influence, that I never thought of resisting, but went on my errand, though I remember feeling as if I would rather have had my head cut off.  The landlord, who had evidently taken an interest in the event of our discussion in a way that country landlords have, accompanied me to the house-door, and gave me repeated directions, as if I was likely to miss my way in two hundred yards.  But I listened to him, for I was glad of the delay, to screw up my courage for the effort of facing unknown people and introducing myself.  I went along the lane, I recollect, switching at all the taller roadside weeds, till, after a turn or two, I found myself close in front of the Hope Farm.  There was a garden between the house and the shady, grassy lane; I afterwards found that this garden was called the court; perhaps because there