looked into the lining of his cap as was his wont before he put it on his head—­“I believe all you say right enough, an’ it don’t put me out nohow—­I’ve seen too much o’ natur to be shook off my ’old on the Almighty—­for there’s no worm wot ain’t sure of a rose or some kind o’ flower an’ fruit somewhere, though m’appen the poor blind thing don’t know where to find it.  It’s case o’ leadin’ on, an’ guidin’ beyond our knowledge, Mr. Bennett,—­an’ that’s wot Passon Walden tells us.  He don’t bother us wi’ no ‘hows’ nor ‘whys’ nor ’wherefores’—­he says we can feel God with us in our daily work, an’ so we can, if we’ve a mind to!  Daily work and common things shows Him to us,—­why look there!”—­ here he pulled from his pocket a small paper-bag, and opening it, showed some dry loose seed—­“There ain’t nothin’ commoner than that!  That’s pansy seed—­a special stock too,—­well now, if you didn’t know how common it is, wouldn’t it seem a miracle as wonderful as any in the Testymen, that out o’ that handful o’ dust like, the finest flowers of purple an’ yellow will come?—­ay! some o’ them two to three inches across, an’ every petal like velvet an’ silk!  If so be you don’t b’lieve in a God, Mr. Bennett, owin’ to town opinions, you try the gardenin’ business!  That’ll make a man of ye!  I allus sez if Adam had stuck to the gardenin’ business an’ left the tailorin’ trade alone we’d have all been in Eden now!”

His eyes twinkled, as glancing round the company, he saw that his words had made an impression and awakened a responsive smile—­“Good-night t’ye!” And touching Bennett on the shoulder in passing, he added:  “You come an’ see me, my lad, when you feels like goin’ a bit in the scinetific line!  Mebbe I can tell ye a few pints wot the learned gentlemen in London don’t know.  Anyway, a little church-goin’ under Passon Walden won’t do you no ’arm, nor your lady neither, if she’s what I takes her for, which is believin’ her to be all good as wimmin goes.  An’ when Passon warms to his work an’ tells ye plain as ‘ow everything’s ordained for the best, an’ as ’ow every flower’s a miracle of the Lord, an’ every bird’s song a bit o’ the Lord’s own special music, it ‘eartens ye up an’ makes ye more ‘opeful o’ your own poor mis’able self—­it do reely now!”

With another friendly pat on the groom’s shoulder, and a cheery smile, Bainton passed out, and left the rest of the company in the ‘Mother Huff’ tap-room solemnly gazing upon one another.

“He speaks straight, he do,” said Farmer Thorpe, “An’ he ain’t no canter,—­he’s just plain Tummas, an’ wot he sez he means.”

“Here’s to his ’elth,—­a game old boy!” said Bennett good-humouredly, ordering another glass of ale; “It’s quite a treat to meet a man like him, and I shan’t be above owning that he’s got a deal of right on his side.  But what he says ain’t Orthodox Church teaching.”

“Mebbe not,” said Dan Kidley, “but it’s Passon Walden’s teachin’, an’ if you ain’t ’eard Passon yet, Mister Bennett, I’d advise ye to go next Sunday.  An’ if your lady ’ud make up her mind to go too just for once—–­”