Annals of a Quiet Neighbourhood
"Well, then," I said, "you'll see my face in church on Sunday, if you happen to be there."
"Yes, sir; but you see, sir, on the bridge here, the parson is the parson like, and I'm Old Rogers; and I looks in his face, and he looks in mine, and I says to myself, 'This is my parson.' But o' Sundays he's nobody's parson; he's got his work to do, and it mun be done, and there's an end on't."
That there was a real idea in the old man's mind was considerably clearer than the logic by which he tried to bring it out.
"Did you know parson that's gone, sir?" he went on.
"No," I answered.
"Oh, sir! he wur a good parson. Many's the time he come and sit at my son's bedside--him that's dead and gone, sir--for a long hour, on a Saturday night, too. And then