eldest is thinkin' o' marryin'
a girl I've never seen, down in Cornwall, which is where 'e be a-workin'
in tin mines, an' when I 'eerd as 'ow 'e was p'raps a-goin' to tie
hisself up in the bonds o' matterimony, I stepped out in the garden just
casual like, an' if you'll believe me, I sees a magpie! Now, Mis' Deane,
magpies is total strangers on these coasts--no one as I've ever 'eard
tell on 'as ever seen one--an' they's the unlikeliest and unluckiest
birds to come across as ever the good God created. An' of course I knows
if my boy marries that gel in Cornwall, it'll be the worst chance and
change for 'im that 'e's 'ad ever since 'e was born! That magpie comed
'ere to warn me of it!"

Mary tried to look serious, but Helmsley was listening to the
conversation, and she caught the mirthful glance of his eyes. So she
laughed, and taking Mrs. Twitt by the shoulders, kissed her heartily on
both cheeks.

"You're a dear!" she said--"And I'll believe in the magpie if you want
me to! But all the same, I don't think any mischief is coming for your
son or for you. I like to hope that everything happening in this world
is for the best, and that the good God means kindly to all of us. Don't
you think that's the right way to live?"

"It may be the right way to live," replied Mrs. Twitt with a doubtful
air--"But there's ter'uble things allus 'appenin', an' I sez if warnings
is sent to us even out o' the mouths o' babes and sucklings, let's
accept 'em in good part. An' if so be a magpie is chose by the Lord as a
messenger we'se fools if we despises the magpie. 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. 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! Twitt an' me, we
felt as if we could 'a served the Lord faithful to the end of the world!
An' we 'ardly ever feels like that in Church. In Church they reads the
words so sing-songy like, that, bein' tired, we