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“
Though
I
do
more
real
work
today
than
all
the
week
besides
.
”
“
Do
you
?
”
“
All
the
week
I
work
for
the
glory
of
man
,
and
on
Sunday
for
the
glory
of
God
.
That
’
s
more
real
than
the
other
—
hey
?
I
have
a
little
to
do
here
at
this
stile
.
”
The
man
turned
as
he
spoke
to
an
opening
at
the
roadside
leading
into
a
pasture
.
“
If
you
’
ll
wait
a
moment
,
”
he
added
,
“
I
shall
not
be
long
.
”
As
he
had
her
basket
she
could
not
well
do
otherwise
;
and
she
waited
,
observing
him
.
He
set
down
her
basket
and
the
tin
pot
,
and
stirring
the
paint
with
the
brush
that
was
in
it
began
painting
large
square
letters
on
the
middle
board
of
the
three
composing
the
stile
,
placing
a
comma
after
each
word
,
as
if
to
give
pause
while
that
word
was
driven
well
home
to
the
reader
’
s
heart
—
THY
,
DAMNATION
,
SLUMBERETH
,
NOT
.
2
Pet
.
ii
.
3
.
Against
the
peaceful
landscape
,
the
pale
,
decaying
tints
of
the
copses
,
the
blue
air
of
the
horizon
and
the
lichened
stileboards
,
these
staring
vermilion
words
shone
forth
.
They
seemed
to
shout
themselves
out
and
make
the
atmosphere
ring
.
Some
people
might
have
cried
“
Alas
,
poor
Theology
!
”
at
the
hideous
defacement
—
the
last
grotesque
phase
of
a
creed
which
had
served
mankind
well
in
its
time
.
But
the
words
entered
Tess
with
accusatory
horror
.
It
was
as
if
this
man
had
known
her
recent
history
;
yet
he
was
a
total
stranger
.
Having
finished
his
text
he
picked
up
her
basket
,
and
she
mechanically
resumed
her
walk
beside
him
.
“
Do
you
believe
what
you
paint
?
”
she
asked
in
low
tones
.
“
Believe
that
tex
?
Do
I
believe
in
my
own
existence
!
”
