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Updated: June 20, 2025
Reay sez 'Twitt, ye're better than any parson I ever 'eerd! An' I believe 'e is 'e's got real 'art an' feelin' for Scripter texes, an' sez 'em just as solemn as though 'e was carvin' 'em on tombstones. It's powerful movin'!" Mary kept a grave face, but said nothing. "An' last Sunday," went on Mrs. Twitt, encouraged, "Mr. Reay hisself read us a chapter o' the New Tesymen, an' 'twas fine!
But that little paunchy Arbroath's worse than a whole flock o' magpies comin' together, an' 'e's actin' like a pestilence in keepin' decent folk away from their own Church. 'Owsomever, Twitt reads prayers every Sunday mornin', an' t'other day Mr. Reay came in an' 'eerd 'im. An' Mr.
A small square board nailed above the door bore the inscription legibly painted in plain black letters: ABEL TWITT, Stone Mason, N. B. Good Grave-Work Guaranteed. The author of this device, and the owner of the dwelling, was a round, rosy-faced little man, with shrewd sparkling grey eyes, a pleasant smile, and a very sociable manner.
It don't seem nat'ral like he's as different from our good old parson as a rat is from a bird, an' you'll own, Mis' Deane, as there's a mighty difference between they two sorts of insecks. An' that minds me, on the Saturday night afore they got the play-actin' on up in the Church, the wick o' my candle guttered down in a windin' sheet as long as long, an' I sez to Twitt 'There you are!
"Such a Town Council as that is a sort of many-headed tyrant, resolved to persecute the unhappy townspeople into their very graves!" "Right y' are!" said Twitt. "But there's a many on 'em! An' ye may thank yer stars ye're not anywheres under 'em. Now when you goes the way o' all flesh " He paused, suddenly embarrassed, and conscious that he had perhaps touched on a sore subject.
If 'e'd bin a parson 'e'd 'a drawed thousands to 'ear 'im! 'E wouldn't 'a wanted crosses nor candles to show us as 'e was speakin' true. Twitt sez to 'im t'other day 'Why aint you a parson, Mr.
Abel himself was not altogether without a certain gentle consciousness that in this particular effort he had done well. But he had no literary vanity. "It comes nat'ral to me," he modestly declared "It's a God's gift which I takes thankful without pride." Helmsley had become very intimate with both Mr. and Mrs. Twitt.
"She is a dear old soul!" he said, "and Twitt is a rough diamond of British honesty. Such men as he keep the old country together and help to establish its reputation for integrity. But that man Arbroath ought to be kicked out of the Church! In fact, I as good as told him so!" "You did!" And Helmsley's sunken eyes began to sparkle with sudden animation. "Upon my word, sir, you are very bold!"
But she was not allowed to start on her unexpected travels without a burst of prophecy from Mrs. Twitt. "As I've said an' allus thought," said that estimable lady "Old David 'ad suthin' 'idden in 'is 'art wot 'e never giv' away to nobody. Mark my words, Mis' Deane!
Twitt raised her eyes and hands in astonishment. "Gone away?" "Yes." And Mary showed her the letter Helmsley had written, and explained how Angus Reay had started off to walk towards Minehead, in the hope of overtaking the wanderer. "Well, I never!" And Mrs. Twitt gave a short gasp of wonder. "Wants to find employment, do 'e? The poor old innercent!
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