The Garden of Resurrection by E. Temple Thurston

On Sunday it is Cruikshank's custom to rest from his labors in the garden. The custom is not one of hypocrisy. He does it, not that he may be seen of others, but, as I fully believe, because there is a depth of religious sentiment within him, which one would never suspect. This does not absolutely deter him from those little attentions to his flowers and his rose trees which no gardener, however religious his scruples may be, would ever describe as work. That knife with the handle of horn is for ever within reach in the pocket of his coat -- a little tangle of bass is always ready to hand should a drooping plant or an overweighted stem demand it, and with these little accessories before the fact, he wanders up and down his garden paths, his mind in such spirit of contentment as I would give my forty years of idleness to possess.

"It's the number seven I like," he says. "I like the idea of an omnipotent power moulding a massive world, hammering and chiselling it, never allowing it a moment of stillness in which to set, keeping it always moving, always in the making for six mighty ages and then, upon the seventh, with tired hands, leaving it to its well-earned rest. The Sabbath in its relation to dogma means very little indeed. It's what it means in its relation to work that I like. It can't honor God that, for one day in the week we do nothing. What honors Him is the work we have done in the six which makes the seventh of necessity a day of rest."