eyes an' no 'art in his body, which we aint
iver seen in this poor old world afore. Thanks be to the Lord no motors
can ever come into Weircombe,--they tears round an' round by another
road, an' we neither sees, 'ears, nor smells 'em, for which I often sez
to my wife--'O be joyful in the Lord all ye lands; serve the Lord with
gladness an' come before His presence with a song!' An' she ups an'
sez--'Don't be blaspheemous, Twitt,--I'll tell parson'--an' I sez--'Tell
'im, old 'ooman, if ye likes!' An' when she tells 'im, 'e smiles nice
an' kind, an' sez--'It's quite lawful, Mrs. Twitt, to quote Scriptural
thanksgiving on all _necessary_ occasions!' E's a good little chap, our
parson, but 'e's that weak on his chest an' ailing that 'e's goin' away
this year to Madeira for rest and warm--an' a blessid old Timp'rance
raskill's coming to take dooty in 'is place. Ah!--none of us Weircombe
folk 'ill be very reg'lar church-goers while Mr. Arbroath's here."

Helmsley started slightly.

"Arbroath? I've seen that man."

'Ave ye? Well, ye 'aven't seen no beauty!" And Twitt gave vent to a
chuckling laugh--"'E'll be startin' 'is 'Igh Jink purcessions an'
vestiments in our plain little church up yonder, an' by the Lord, 'e'll
'ave to purcess an' vestiment by 'isself, for Weircombe wont 'elp 'im.
We aint none of us 'Igh Jink folks."

"Is that your name for High Church?" asked Helmsley, amused.

"It is so, an' a very good name it be," declared Twitt, stoutly--"For if
all the bobbins' an' scrapins' an' crosses an' banners aint a sort o'
jinkin' Lord Mayor's show, then what be they? It's fair oaffish to bob
to the east as them 'Igh Jinkers does, for we aint never told in the
Gospels that th' Almighty 'olds that partikler quarter o' the wind as a
place o' residence. The Lord's everywhere,--east, west, north,
south,--why he's with us at this very minute!"--and Twitt raised his
eyes piously to the heavens--"He's 'elpin' you an' me to draw the breath
through our lungs--for if He didn't 'elp, we couldn't do it, that's
certain. An' if He makes the sun to rise in the east, He makes it to
sink in the west, an' there's no choice either way, an' we sez our
prayers simple both times o' day, not to the sun at all, but to the
Maker o' the sun, an' of everything else as we sees. No, no!--no 'Igh
Jinks for me!--I don't want to bow to no East when I sees the Lord's no
more east than He's west, an' no more in either place than He is here,
close to me a