“Nay, I’m going to th’ school.”
Hitherto Gyp had kept his comfortable bed, only lifting
up his head and watching Adam more closely as he noticed
the other workmen departing. But no sooner did
Adam put his ruler in his pocket, and begin to twist
his apron round his waist, than Gyp ran forward and
looked up in his master’s face with patient
expectation. If Gyp had had a tail he would doubtless
have wagged it, but being destitute of that vehicle
for his emotions, he was like many other worthy personages,
destined to appear more phlegmatic than nature had
made him.
“What! Art ready for the basket, eh, Gyp?”
said Adam, with the same gentle modulation of voice
as when he spoke to Seth.
Gyp jumped and gave a short bark, as much as to say,
“Of course.” Poor fellow, he had
not a great range of expression.
The basket was the one which on workdays held Adam’s
and Seth’s dinner; and no official, walking
in procession, could look more resolutely unconscious
of all acquaintances than Gyp with his basket, trotting
at his master’s heels.
On leaving the workshop Adam locked the door, took
the key out, and carried it to the house on the other
side of the woodyard. It was a low house, with
smooth grey thatch and buff walls, looking pleasant
and mellow in the evening light. The leaded windows
were bright and speckless, and the door-stone was
as clean as a white boulder at ebb tide. On the
door-stone stood a clean old woman, in a dark-striped
linen gown, a red kerchief, and a linen cap, talking
to some speckled fowls which appeared to have been
drawn towards her by an illusory expectation of cold
potatoes or barley. The old woman’s sight
seemed to be dim, for she did not recognize Adam till
he said, “Here’s the key, Dolly; lay it
down for me in the house, will you?”
“Aye, sure; but wunna ye come in, Adam?
Miss Mary’s i’ th’ house, and Mester
Burge ‘ull be back anon; he’d be glad t’
ha’ ye to supper wi’m, I’ll be’s
warrand.”
“No, Dolly, thank you; I’m off home.
Good evening.”
Adam hastened with long strides, Gyp close to his
heels, out of the workyard, and along the highroad
leading away from the village and down to the valley.
As he reached the foot of the slope, an elderly horseman,
with his portmanteau strapped behind him, stopped his
horse when Adam had passed him, and turned round to
have another long look at the stalwart workman in
paper cap, leather breeches, and dark-blue worsted
stockings.
Adam, unconscious of the admiration he was exciting,
presently struck across the fields, and now broke
out into the tune which had all day long been running
in his head:
Let all thy converse
be sincere,
Thy conscience as the
noonday clear;
For God’s all-seeing
eye surveys
Thy secret thoughts,
thy works and ways.
The Preaching
