COUSIN PHILLIS. 13
Mr. Holdsworth had risen from the table with more promptitude than I had, and was standing by the window, looking. At the landlord's last words, he turned round, smiling, — "It is not often that parsons know how to keep land in order, is it?"
"Beg pardon, sir, but I must speak as I find; and Minister Holman — we call the Church clergymen here 'parson,' sir; he would be a bit jealous if he heard a Dissenter called parson — Minister Holman knows what he's about as well as e'er a farmer in the neighbourhood. He gives up five days a week to his own work, and two to the Lord's; and it is difficult to say which he works hardest at. He spends Saturday and Sunday a-writing sermons and a-visiting his flock at Hornby; and at five o'clock on Monday morning he'll be guiding his plough in the Hope Farm yonder just as well as if he could neither read nor write. But your dinner will be getting cold, gentlemen."
So we went back to table. After a while, Mr. Holdsworth broke the silence— "If I were you, Manning, I'd look up these relations of yours. You can go and see what they're like while we're waiting for Dobson's estimates, and I'll smoke a cigar in the garden meanwhile."
"Thank you, sir. But I don't know them, and I don't think I want to know them."
"What did you ask all those questions for, then?" said he, looking quickly up at me. He had no notion of doing or saying things without a purpose. I did not answer, so he continued, — "Make up your mind, and go off and see what this farmer-minister is like, and come back and tell me — I should like to hear."
