"'Tis handsome in you, a comin' to see the likes o' me," said the patient,
flushing with satisfaction. "You'm like the stickler at a wras'lin' match,
Mister Tregenza, sir; you sees fair play betwixt God an' man."
"So you'm better, Albert, your mother sez."
"Iss, a bit. Theer's more kick an' sprawl [Footnote: _Kick an'
sprawl_--Strength, vitality.] in me than theer 'ave bin; an' I feels
more hopeful like 'bout the future."
Self-righteousness in a new-fledged Luke Gospeler, who had been of the fold
but three months and whose previous record was extremely unsatisfactory,
irritated Gray Michael not a little.
"Bwoy!" he said loudly, "doan't 'e be deceived that way. 'Gird 'e wi'
sackcloth, lament and howl; for the fierce anger o' the Lard is _not_
turned back from us.' Three months o' righteousness is a purty bad set off
'gainst twenty years o' sin, an' it doan't become 'e to feel hopeful, I
'sure ye."
The sick man's color paled, and a certain note as of triumph in his voice
died out of it. His mother had left them, feeling that her presence might
hinder conversation and lessen the comfort which Mr. Tregenza had brought.
"I did ought to be chap-fall'n, I s'pose."
"Iss, you did, my son, nobody more'n you. Maybe you'll live; maybe you'll
die; but keep humble. I doan't wish to deceive 'e. Us ain't had time to
make no certainty 'bout things. You'm in the Lard's hand, an' it becomes 'e
to sing small, an' remember what your life's bin.
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