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The Lard's my doctor. Keep your sawl clean, an' the Lard'll watch your body. 'E's said as much. 'E knaws we'm poor trashy worms an' even a breath o' foul air'll take our lives onless 'E be by to filter it. Faith's the awnly medicine worth usin'." Joan remembered her morning bath and felt comforted by this last reflection. Had she not already found the magic result?
Thank God! he had been reared by a Christian father of the old school. "No, no, doctor!" he declared, his face contorted by pain. "I'm thankin' you kindly; but I'm not carin' t' interfere with the decrees o' Providence." "But, man," cried the doctor, "I must " "No!" doggedly. "I'll not stand in the Lard's way. If 'tis His will for me t' get better, I'll get better, I s'pose.
I be punished wi' loss an' wi' sich work put on me as may lead to a terrible ugly plaace at the end. But theer 'tis. Like the chisel in the hand o' the carpenter, so I be a sharp tool in the Lard's grip." "Never! You be a poor, dazed worm in the grip o' your awn evil thots! Theer's no religion as would put you in the right wi' sich notions as them.
"Th' Lard's makin' His own plans an' He's not wantin' me t' be meddlin' wi' un, an' so He's not lettin' me do th' way I lays out t' do, an' I'll be makin' no more plans, but takin' things as they comes along."
Then slowly up the hill they passed, and rested now and again above the steep places. "A wisht home-comin' as ever a body heard tell on," commented Gaffer Polglaze; "an' yet the Lard's good pleasure's allus right if you lives long enough to look back an' see how things was from His bird's-eye view of 'em. Who Be gwaine to come by that?" "Her give it under hand an' seal to her brother."
Na, na, quo' I, depend upon't the lard's been imposed upon wi that wily do-little deevil, Johnnie Howie. But Lord haud a care o' us, sirs, how can that be, quo' she again, when the laird's sae book-learned, there's no the like o' him in the country side, and Johnnie Howie has hardly sense eneugh to ca' the cows out o' his kale-yard? Aweel, aweel, quo' I, but ye'll hear he's circumvented him with some of his auld-warld stories, for ye ken, laird, yon other time about the bodle that ye thought was an auld coin"
I'll sell you this un. 'How much does you want for un? says I. 'You can have she for fifty dollars, says he, 'and that's givin' she to you. 'All I has is thirty dollars, says I. 'Give me the thirty dollars and take un, says he. 'I'd have to leave un behind whatever. And so I gets un." "You were lucky!" said Charley. "Lucky! Not that!" objected Skipper Zeb. "'Twere the Lard's doin's.
The devil nets un by the hundred quintal, for 'tis such easy fishin'; but sinners such as sin agin their will the Lard loves an' gathers in. They who sin must suffer, Davy, an' only such as suffer can know the dear Lard's love. God be thanked for sin," he said, looking up, inspired. "Let the righteous be damned they deserve it. Give me the company o' sinners!" "Is you sure?"
"Wheer 's his ticket to then?" "Why, it isn't Miller Lyddon's young maid, surely!" burst out the fisherman; "not Phoebe grown to woman!" A Devon accent marked the speech, suddenly dragged from him by surprise. "Ess, I be Phoebe Lyddon; but don't 'e fall 'pon each other again, for the Lard's sake," she said. "The boy 's as tetchy in temper as a broody hen.
For the Lard's sake doan't 'e look at me like that; you'll frighten my heart into my mouth." "To think he knawed an' watched an' waited all these years! The spider patience o' that man! I see how 't was. He let the world have its way an' thought to see me broken wi'out any trouble from him.
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