Mr. Poyser paused and looked round while he was speaking, as if to see where Hetty was; for the children were running on before.  Hetty was not without a companion, and she had, besides, more pink and white about her than ever, for she held in her hand the wonderful pink-and-white hot-house plant, with a very long name—­a Scotch name, she supposed, since people said Mr. Craig the gardener was Scotch.  Adam took the opportunity of looking round too; and I am sure you will not require of him that he should feel any vexation in observing a pouting expression on Hetty’s face as she listened to the gardener’s small talk.  Yet in her secret heart she was glad to have him by her side, for she would perhaps learn from him how it was Arthur had not come to church.  Not that she cared to ask him the question, but she hoped the information would be given spontaneously; for Mr. Craig, like a superior man, was very fond of giving information.

Mr. Craig was never aware that his conversation and advances were received coldly, for to shift one’s point of view beyond certain limits is impossible to the most liberal and expansive mind; we are none of us aware of the impression we produce on Brazilian monkeys of feeble understanding—­it is possible they see hardly anything in us.  Moreover, Mr. Craig was a man of sober passions, and was already in his tenth year of hesitation as to the relative advantages of matrimony and bachelorhood.  It is true that, now and then, when he had been a little heated by an extra glass of grog, he had been heard to say of Hetty that the “lass was well enough,” and that “a man might do worse”; but on convivial occasions men are apt to express themselves strongly.

Martin Poyser held Mr. Craig in honour, as a man who “knew his business” and who had great lights concerning soils and compost; but he was less of a favourite with Mrs. Poyser, who had more than once said in confidence to her husband, “You’re mighty fond o’ Craig, but for my part, I think he’s welly like a cock as thinks the sun’s rose o’ purpose to hear him crow.”  For the rest, Mr. Craig was an estimable gardener, and was not without reasons for having a high opinion of himself.  He had also high shoulders and high cheek-bones and hung his head forward a little, as he walked along with his hands in his breeches pockets.  I think it was his pedigree only that had the advantage of being Scotch, and not his “bringing up”; for except that he had a stronger burr in his accent, his speech differed little from that of the Loamshire people about him.  But a gardener is Scotch, as a French teacher is Parisian.

“Well, Mr. Poyser,” he said, before the good slow farmer had time to speak, “ye’ll not be carrying your hay to-morrow, I’m thinking.  The glass sticks at ‘change,’ and ye may rely upo’ my word as we’ll ha’ more downfall afore twenty-four hours is past.  Ye see that darkish-blue cloud there upo’ the ’rizon—­ye know what I mean by the ’rizon, where the land and sky seems to meet?”