“I suppose y’are alludin’ to the F.R.H.’s, Passon,” he said; “They all loves Latin, as cats loves milk; howsomever, they never knows ‘ow to pronounce it.  Likewhich myself not bein’ a F.R.H. nor likely to be, I’m bound to confess I dabbles in it a bit,—­though there’s a chap wot I gets cheap shrubs of, his Latin’s worse nor mine, an’ ’e’s got all the three letters after ’is name.  ’Ow did ’e get ’em?  By reason of competition in the Chrysanthum Show.  Lor’!  Henny fool can grow ye a chrysanthum as big as a cabbage, if that’s yer fancy,- -that ain’t scientific gard’nin’!  An’ as for the mignonette, I reckon to agree wi’ ye, Passon—­the size ain’t the sweetness, likewhich when I married, I married a small lass, for sez I:  ’Little to carry, less to keep!’ An’ that’s true enough, though she’s gained in breadth, Lor’ love ’er!—­wot she never ’ad in heighth.  As I was a-sayin’, the chap wot I gets shrubs of, reels off ’is Latin like chollops of mud off a garden scraper; but ’e don’t understand it while ‘e sez it.  Jes’ for show, bless ye!  It all goes down wi’ Sir Morton Pippitt, though, for ’e sez, sez ’e:  ’My cabbages are the prize vegetable, grown by Mr. Smogorton of Worcester, F.R.H.’  ’E’s got it in ‘is Catlog!  Hor!—­hor!—­hor!  Passon, a bit o’ Latin do go down wi’ some folks in the gard’nin’ line—­it do reely now!”

“Talking of Sir Morton Pippitt,” said Walden, disregarding his gardener’s garrulity, “It seems he has visitors up at the Hall.”

“’E ‘as so,” returned Bainton; “Reg’ler weedy waifs an’ strays o’ ’umanity, if one may go by out’ard appearance; not a single firm, well-put-down leg among ’em.  Mos’ly ‘lords’ and ‘sirs.’  Bein’ so jes’ lately knighted for buildin’ a ’ospital at Riversford, out of the proceeds o’ bone meltin’ into buttons, Sir Morton couldn’t a’ course, be expected to put up wi’ a plain ‘mister’ takin’ food wi’ ’im.”

“Well, well,—­whoever they are, they want to see the church.”

“Seems to me a sight o’ folks wants to see the church since ye spent so much money on it, Passon,” said Bainton somewhat resentfully; “There oughter be a charge made for entry.”

Walden smiled thoughtfully; but there was a small line of vexation on his brow.

“They want to see the church,” he repeated, “Or rather Sir Morton wants them to ‘inspect’ the church;”—­and then his smile expanded and became a soft mellow laugh; “What a pompous old fellow it is!  One would almost think he had restored the church himself, and not only restored it, but built it altogether and endowed it!” He turned to go, then suddenly bethought himself of other gardening matters,—­ “Bainton, that bare corner near the house must be filled with clematis.  The plants are just ready to bed out.  And look to the geraniums in the front border.  By the way, do you see that straight line along the wall there,—­where I am pointing?”

“Yes, sir!” dutifully rejoined Bainton, shading his eyes from the strong sun with one grimy hand.