IX
　　Shewasawakenedbythescreamofanengine，andlookedaroundheramazed。Herneckhadfallensidewayswhilesheslept，andfelthorridlystiff;herheadached，andshewasshivering。Shesawbytheclockthatitwaspastfive。’IfonlyIcouldgetsometea！’shethought。’AnywayIwon’tstayhereanylonger！’Whenshehadwashed，andrubbedsomeofthestiffnessoutofherneck，thetearenewedhersenseofadventurewonderfully。Hertraindidnotstartforanhour;shehadtimeforawalk，towarmherself，andwentdowntotheriver。Therewasanearlyhaze，andalllookedalittlemysterious;butpeoplewerealreadypassingontheirwaytowork。
　　Shewalkedalong，lookingatthewaterflowingupunderthebrightmisttowhichthegullsgaveasortofhoveringlife。ShewentasfarasBlackfriarsBridge，andturningback，satdownonabenchunderaplane—tree，justasthesunbrokethrough。Alittlepastywomanwithapinchedyellowishfacewasalreadysittingthere，sostill，andseemingtoseesolittle，thatNoelwonderedofwhatshecouldbethinking。Whileshewatched，thewoman’sfacebeganpuckering，andtearsrolledslowly，down，tricklingfrompuckertopucker，till，summoninguphercourage，Noelsidlednearer，andsaid:
　　"Oh！What’sthematter？"
　　Thetearsseemedtostopfromsheersurprise;littlegreyeyesgazedround，patientlittleeyesfromaboveanalmostbridgelessnose。
　　"I’adababy。It’sdead……itsfather’sdeadinFrance……Iwasgoin’inthewater，butIdidn’tlikethelookofit，andnowIneverwill。"
　　That"NowIneverwill，"movedNoelterribly。Sheslidherarmalongthebackofthebenchandclaspedtheskinniestofshoulders。
　　"Don’tcry！"
　　"Itwasmyfirst。I’mthirty—eight。I’llnever’aveanother。Oh！
　　Whydidn’tIgointhewater？"
　　Thefacepuckeredagain，andthesqueezed—outtearsrandown。’Ofcourseshemustcry，’thoughtNoel;’cryandcrytillitfeelsbetter。’Andshestrokedtheshoulderofthelittlewoman，whoseemotionwasdisengagingthescentofoldclothes。
　　"ThefatherofmybabywaskilledinFrance，too，"shesaidatlast。
　　Thelittlesadgreyeyeslookedcuriouslyround。
　　"Was’e？’Aveyougotyourbabystill？"
　　"Yes，oh，yes！"
　　"I’mgladofthat。It’urtssobad，itdoes。I’dratherloseme’usbandthanmebaby，anyday。"Thesunwasshiningnowonacheekofthatterriblypatientface;itsbrightnessseemedcruelperchingthere。
　　"CanIdoanythingtohelpyou？"Noelmurmured。
　　"No，thankyou，miss。I’mgoin’’omenow。Idon’tlivefar。Thankyoukindly。"Andraisinghereyesforonemoreofthosehalf—
　　bewilderedlooks，shemovedawayalongtheEmbankmentwall。Whenshewasoutofsight，Noelwalkedbacktothestation。Thetrainwasin，andshetookherseat。Shehadthreefellowpassengers，allinkhaki;verysilentandmoody，asmenarewhentheyhavetogetupearly。Onewastall，dark，andperhapsthirty—five;thesecondsmall，aridaboutfifty，withcropped，scantygreyhair;thethirdwasofmediumheightandquitesixty—five，withalongrowoflittlecolouredpatchesonhistunic，andabald，narrow，well—shapedhead，greyhairbrushedbackatthesides，andthethin，collectedfeaturesanddroopingmoustacheoftheoldschool。ItwasathimthatNoellooked。Whenheglancedoutofthewindow，orotherwiseretiredwithinhimself，shelikedhisface;butwhenheturnedtotheticket—
　　collectororspoketotheothers，shedidnotlikeithalfsomuch。
　　Itwasasiftheoldfellowhadtwoselves，oneofwhichheusedwhenalone，theotherinwhichhedressedeverymorningtomeettheworld。
　　TheyhadbeguntotalkaboutsomeTribunalonwhichtheyhadtosit。
　　Noeldidnotlisten，butawordortwocarriedtohernowandthen。
　　"Howmanyto—day？"sheheardtheoldfellowask，andthelittlecroppedmananswering:"Hundredandfourteen。"
　　Freshfromthesightofthepoorlittleshabbywomanandhergrief，shecouldnothelpasortofshrinkingfromthattrimoldsoldier，withhisthin，regularface，whoheldthefateofa"Hundredandfourteen"inhisfirm，narrowgrasp，perhapseveryday。Wouldheunderstandtheirtroublesorwants？Ofcoursehewouldn’t！Then，shesawhimlookingathercriticallywithhiskeeneyes。Ifhehadknownhersecret，hewouldbethinking:’Aladyandactlikethat！
　　Oh，no！Quite—quiteoutofthequestion！’Andshefeltasifshecould，sinkundertheseatwithshame。Butnodoubthewasonlythinking:’Veryyoungtobetravellingbyherselfatthishourofthemorning。Prettytoo！’Ifheknewtherealtruthofher——howhewouldstare！Butwhyshouldthisutterstranger，thisolddisciplinarian，byacasualglance，bythemereformofhisface，makeherfeelmoreguiltyandashamedthanshehadyetfelt？Thatpuzzledher。Hewas，mustbe，anarrow，conventionaloldman;buthehadthispowertomakeherfeelashamed，becauseshefeltthathehadfaithinhisgods，andwastruetothem;becausesheknewhewoulddiesoonerthandepartfromhiscreedofconduct。Sheturnedtothewindow，bitingherlips—angryanddespairing。Shewouldnever——nevergetusedtoherposition;itwasnogood！Andagainshehadthelongingofherdream，totuckherfaceawayintothatcoat，smellthescentofthefrieze，snugglein，beprotected，andforget。’IfIhadbeenthatpoorlonelylittlewoman，’shethought，’andhadlosteverything，Ishouldhavegoneintothewater。Ishouldhaverushedandjumped。It’sonlyluckthatI’malive。Iwon’tlookatthatoldmanagain:thenIshan’tfeelsobad。’
　　Shehadboughtsomechocolateatthestation，andnibbledit，gazingsteadilyatthefieldscoveredwithdaisiesandthefirstofthebuttercupsandcowslips。Thethreesoldiersweretalkingnowincarefullyloweredvoices。Thewords:"women，""undercontrol，"
　　"perfectplague，"cametoher，makingherearsburn。Inthehypersensitivemoodcausedbythestrainofyesterday，herbrokennight，andtheemotionalmeetingwiththelittlewoman，shefeltasiftheywereincludingheramongthose"women。"’Ifwestop，I’llgetout，’shethought。Butwhenthetraindidstopitwastheywhogotout。ShefelttheoldGeneral’skeenveiledglancesumherupforthelasttime，andlookedfullathimjustforamoment。Hetouchedhiscap，andsaid:"Willyouhavethewindowupordown？"
　　andlingeredtodrawithalf—wayup。’Hispunctiliousnessmadeherfeelworsethanever。Whenthetrainhadstartedagainsheroamedupanddownheremptycarriage;therewasnomoreawayoutofherpositionthanoutofthisrollingcushionedcarriage！AndthensheseemedtohearFort’svoicesaying:’Sitdown，please！’andtofeelhisfingersclaspherwrist，Oh！hewasniceandcomforting;hewouldneverreproachorremindher！Andnow，probably，shewouldneverseehimagain。
　　Thetraindrewupatlast。ShedidnotknowwhereGeorgelodged，andwouldhavetogotohishospital。Sheplannedtogetthereathalfpastnine，andhavingeatenasortofbreakfastatthestation，wentforthintothetown。Theseasidewasstillwrappedintheearlyglamourwhichhauntschalkofabrightmorning。Butthestreetswereverymuchalive。Herewasrealbusinessofthewar。Shepassedhouseswhichhadbeenwrecked。Trucksclangedandshunted，greatlorriesrumbledsmoothlyby。Sea——andAir—planesweremovinglikegreatbirdsfarupinthebrighthaze，andkhakiwaseverywhere。ButitwastheseaNoelwanted。Shemadeherwaywestwardtoalittlebeach;and，sittingdownonastone，openedherarmstocatchthesunonherfaceandchest。Thetidewasnearlyup，withthewaveletsofabluebrightsea。Thegreatfact，thegreatestfactintheworld，exceptthesun;vastandfree，makingeverythinghumanseemsmallandtransitory！Itdidhergood，likeatranquillisingfriend。Theseamightbecruelandterrible，awfulthingsitcoulddo，andawfulthingswerebeingdoneonit;butitswidelevelline，itsnever—
　　endingsong，itssanesavour，werethebestmedicineshecouldpossiblyhavetaken。SherubbedtheShellysandbetweenherfingersinabsurdecstasy;tookoffhershoesandstockings，paddled，andsatdryingherlegsinthesun。
　　Whensheleftthelittlebeach，shefeltasifsomeonehadsaidtoher:
　　’Yourtroublesareverylittle。There’sthesun，thesea，theair;
　　enjoythem。Theycan’ttakethosefromyou。’
　　AtthehospitalshehadtowaithalfanhourinalittlebareroombeforeGeorgecame。
　　"Nollie！Splendid。I’vegotanhour。Let’sgetoutofthiscemetery。We’llhavetimeforagoodstretchonthetops。Jollyofyoutohavecometome。Tellusallaboutit。"
　　Whenshehadfinished，hesqueezedherarm。348
　　"Iknewitwouldn’tdo。YourDadforgotthathe’sapublicfigure，andmustexpecttobedamnedaccordingly。Butthoughyou’vecutandrun，he’llresignallthesame，Nollie。"
　　"Oh，no！"criedNoel。
　　Georgeshookhishead。
　　"Yes，he’llresign，you’llsee，he’sgotnoworldlysense;notagrain。"
　　"ThenIshallhavespoiledhislife，justasif——oh，no！"
　　"Let’ssitdownhere。Imustbebackateleven。"
　　Theysatdownonabench，wherethegreencliffstretchedoutbeforethem，overaseaquiteclearofhaze，fardownandveryblue。
　　"Whyshouldheresign，"criedNoelagain，"nowthatI’vegone？He’llbelostwithoutitall。"
　　Georgesmiled。
　　"Found，mydear。He’llbewhereheoughttobe，Nollie，wheretheChurchis，andtheChurchmenarenot——intheair！"
　　"Don’t！"criedNoelpassionately。
　　"No，no，I’mnotchaffing。There’snoroomonearthforsaintsinauthority。There’suseforasaintlysymbol，evenifonedoesn’tholdwithit，butthere’snomortaluseforthosewhotrytohavethingsbothways——tobesaintsandseersofvisions，andyettocomethepracticalandworldlyandruleordinarymen’slives。Saintlyexampleyes;butnotsaintlygovernance。You’vebeenhisdeliverance，Nollie。"
　　"ButDaddyloveshisChurch。"
　　Georgefrowned。"Ofcourse，it’llbeawrench。Aman’sboundtohaveacoseyfeelingaboutaplacewherehe’sbeenbosssolong;andthereissomethingaboutaChurch——thedrone，thescent，thehalfdarkness;there’sbeautyinit，it’sapleasantdrug。Buthe’snotbeingaskedtogiveupthedrughabit;onlytostopadministeringdrugstoothers。Don’tworry，Nollie;Idon’tbelievethat’seversuitedhim，itwantsathickerskinthanhe’sgot。"
　　"Butallthepeoplehehelps？"
　　"Noreasonheshouldn’tgoonhelpingpeople，isthere？"
　　"Buttogoonlivingthere，without——Motherdiedthere，youknow！"
　　Georgegrunted。"Dreams，Nollie，allroundhim;ofthepastandthefuture，ofwhatpeopleareandwhathecandowiththem。Ineverseehimwithoutaskirmish，asyouknow，andyetI’mfondofhim。ButI
　　shouldbetwiceasfond，andhalfaslikelytoskirmish，ifhe’ddropthehabitsofauthority。ThenIbelievehe’dhavesomerealinfluenceoverme;there’ssomethingbeautifulabouthim，Iknowthatquitewell。"
　　"Yes，"murmuredNoelfervently。
　　"He’ssuchaqueermixture，"musedGeorge。"Cleanoutofhisage;
　　chalksabovemostoftheparsonsinaspiritualsenseandchalksbelowmostofthemintheworldly。AndyetIbelievehe’sintherightofit。TheChurchoughttobeaforlornhope，Nollie;thenweshouldbelieveinit。Insteadofthat，it’sasortofbusinessthatnoonecantaketooseriously。Yousee，theChurchspiritualcan’tmakegoodinthisage——hasnochanceofmakinggood，andsointhemainit’sgivenitupforvestedinterestsandsocialinfluence。
　　YourfatherisasymbolofwhattheChurchisnot。Butwhataboutyou，mydear？There’saroomatmyboarding—house，andonlyoneoldladybesidesmyself，whoknitsallthetime。IfGracecangetshiftedwe’llfindahouse，andyoucanhavethebaby。They’llsendyourluggageonfromPaddingtonifyouwrite;andinthemeantimeGracie’sgotsomethingsherethatyoucanhave。"
　　"I’llhavetosendawiretoDaddy。"
　　"I’lldothat。Youcometomydiggingsathalfpastone，andI’llsettleyouin。Untilthen，you’dbetterstayuphere。"
　　Whenhehadgonesheroamedalittlefarther，andlaydownontheshortgrass，wherethechalkbrokethroughinpatches。Shecouldhearadistantrumbling，verylow，travellinginthatgrass，thelongmutteroftheFlandersguns。’Iwonderifit’sasbeautifuladaythere，’shethought。’Howdreadfultoseenogreen，nobutterflies，noflowers—notevensky—forthedustoftheshells。Oh！won’titever，everend？’Andasortofpassionfortheearthwelledupinher，thewarmgrassyearthalongwhichshelay，pressedsoclosethatshecouldfeelitwitheveryinchofherbody，andthesoftspikesofthegrassagainsthernoseandlips。Anachingsweetnesstorturedher，shewantedtheearthtocloseitsarmsabouther，shewantedtheanswertoherembraceofit。Shewasalive，andwantedlove。Notdeath——notloneliness——notdeath！Andoutthere，wherethegunsmuttered，millionsofmenwouldbethinkingthatsamethought！
　　X
　　Piersonhadpassednearlythewholenightwiththerelicsofhispast，therecordsofhisstewardship，thetokensofhisshortmarriedlife。Theideawhichhadpossessedhimwalkinghomeinthemoonlightsustainedhiminthatmelancholytaskofdocketinganddestruction。
　　Therewasnotnearlysomuchtodoasonewouldhavesupposed，for，withallhisdreaminess，hehadbeenoddlyneatandbusinesslikeinallparishmatters。Butahundredtimesthatnighthestopped，overcomebymemories。Everycorner，drawer，photograph，paperwasathreadinthelong—spunwebofhislifeinthishouse。Somephaseofhiswork，somevisionofhiswifeordaughtersstartedforthfromeachbitoffurniture，picture，doorway。Noiseless，inhisslippers，hestoleupanddownbetweenthestudy，diningroom，drawing—room，andanyoneseeinghimathisworkinthedimlightwhichvisitedthestaircasefromabovethefrontdoorandtheupper—passagewindow，wouldhavethought:’Aghost，aghostgoneintomourningfortheconditionoftheworld。’Hehadtomakethisreckoningto—night，whiletheexaltationofhisnewideawasonhim;hadtorummageouttheverydepthsofoldassociation，sothatonceforallhemightknowwhetherhehadstrengthtoclosethedooronthepast。Fiveo’clockstruckbeforehehadfinished，and，almostdroppingfromfatigue，satdownathislittlepianoinbrightdaylight。Thelastmemorytobesethimwasthefirstofall;hishoneymoon，beforetheycamebacktoliveinthishouse，alreadychosen，furnished，andwaitingforthem。TheyhadspentitinGermany——thefirstdaysinBaden—baden，andeachmorninghadbeenawakenedbyaChoraleplayeddowninthegardensoftheKurhaus，agentle，beautifultune，toremindthemthattheywereinheaven。Andsoftly，sosoftlythatthetunesseemedtobebutdreamshebeganplayingthoseoldChorales，oneafteranother，sothatthestillysoundsfloatedout，throughtheopenedwindow，puzzlingtheearlybirdsandcatsandthosefewhumanswhowereabroadasyet……
　　HereceivedthetelegramfromNoelintheafternoonofthesameday，justashewasabouttosetoutforLeila’stogetnewsofher;andcloseonthetopofitcameLavendie。Hefoundthepainterstandingdisconsolateinfrontofhispicture。
　　"Mademoisellehasdesertedme？"
　　"I’mafraidweshallalldesertyousoon，monsieur。"
　　"Youaregoing？"
　　"Yes，Iamleavinghere。IhopetogotoFrance。"
　　"Andmademoiselle？"
　　"Sheisattheseawithmyson—in—law。"
　　Thepainterranhishandsthroughhishair，butstoppedthemhalf—
　　way，asifawarethathewasbeingguiltyofill—breeding。
　　"Mondieu！"hesaid:"Isthisnotacalamityforyou，monsieurlecure？"ButhissenseofthecalamitywassopatentlylimitedtohisunfinishedpicturethatPiersoncouldnothelpasmile。
　　"Ah，monsieur！"saidthepainter，onwhomnothingwaslost。"Commejesuisegoiste！Ishowmyfeelings;itisdeplorable。Mydisappointmentmustseemabagatelletoyou，whowillbesodistressedatleavingyouroldhome。Thismustbeatimeofgreattrouble。Believeme;Iunderstand。Buttosympathisewithagriefwhichisnotshownwouldbeanimpertinence，woulditnot？YouEnglishgentlefolkdonotletusshareyourgriefs;youkeepthemtoyourselves。"
　　Piersonstared。"True，"hesaid。"Quitetrue！"
　　"IamnojudgeofChristianity，monsieur，butforusartiststhedoorsofthehumanheartstandopen，ourownandothers。Isupposewehavenopride——c’esttres—indelicat。Tellme，monsieur，youwouldnotthinkitworthyofyoutospeaktomeofyourtroubles，wouldyou，asIhavespokenofmine？"
　　Piersonbowedhishead，abashed。
　　"Youpreachofuniversalcharityandlove，"wentonLavendie;"buthowcantherebethatwhenyouteachalsosecretlythekeepingofyourtroublestoyourselves？Manrespondstoexample，nottoteaching;yousettheexampleofthestranger，notthebrother。Youexpectfromotherswhatyoudonotgive。Frankly，monsieur，doyounotfeelthatwitheveryrevelationofyoursoulandfeelings，virtuegoesoutofyou？AndIwilltellyouwhy，ifyouwillnotthinkitanoffence。Inopeningyourheartsyoufeelthatyouloseauthority。
　　Youareofficers，andmustneverforgetthat。Isitnotso？"
　　Piersongrewred。"Ihopethereisanotherfeelingtoo。Ithinkwefeelthattospeakofoursufferingsor，deeperfeelingsistoobtrudeoneself，tomakeafuss，tobeself—concerned，whenwemightbeconcernedwithothers。"
　　"Monsieur，aufondweareallconcernedwithself。Toseemselflessisbutyourparticularwayofcultivatingtheperfectionofself。
　　Youadmitthatnottoobtrudeselfisthewaytoperfectyourself。
　　Ehbien！Whatisthatbutadeeperconcernwithself？Tobefreeofthis，thereisnowaybuttoforgetallaboutoneselfinwhatoneisdoing，asIforgeteverythingwhenIampainting。But，"headded，withasuddensmile，"youwouldnotwishtoforgettheperfectingofself——itwouldnotberightinyourprofession。SoImusttakeawaythispicture，mustInot？Itisoneofmybestworks:Iregretmuchnottohavefinishedit。"
　　"Someday，perhaps——"
　　"Someday！Thepicturewillstandstill，butmademoisellewillnot。
　　Shewillrushatsomething，andbehold！thisfacewillbegone。No;
　　Iprefertokeepitasitis。Ithastruthnow。"Andliftingdownthecanvas，hestooditagainstthewallandfoldeduptheeasel。
　　"Bonsoir，monsieur，youhavebeenverygoodtome。"HewrungPierson’shand;andhisfaceforamomentseemedalleyesandspirit。
　　"Adieu！"
　　"Good—bye，"Piersonmurmured。"Godblessyou！"
　　"Idon’tknowifIhavegreatconfidenceinHim，"repliedLavendie，"butIshalleverrememberthatsogoodamanasyouhaswishedit。
　　Tomademoisellemydistinguishedsalutations，ifyouplease。Ifyouwillpermitme，Iwillcomebackformyotherthingsto—morrow。"Andcarryingeaselandcanvas，hedeparted。
　　Piersonstayedintheolddrawing—room，waitingforGratiantocomein，andthinkingoverthepainter’swords。Hadhiseducationandpositionreallymadeitimpossibleforhimtobebrotherly？Wasthisthesecretoftheimpotencewhichhesometimesfelt;thereasonwhycharityandlovewerenotmorealiveintheheartsofhiscongregation？’GodknowsI’venoconsciousnessofhavingfeltmyselfsuperior，’hethought;’andyetIwouldbetrulyashamedtotellpeopleofmytroublesandofmystruggles。CanitbethatChrist，ifhewereonearth，wouldcountusPharisees，believingourselvesnotasothermen？ButsurelyitisnotasChristiansbutratherasgentlementhatwekeepourselvestoourselves。Officers，hecalledus。Ifear——Ifearitistrue。’Ah，well！Therewouldnotbemanymoredaysnow。Hewouldlearnouttherehowtoopentheheartsofothers，andhisown。Sufferinganddeathlevelledallbarriers，madeallmenbrothers。HewasstillsittingtherewhenGratiancamein;
　　andtakingherhand，hesaid:
　　"NoelhasgonedowntoGeorge，andIwantyoutogettransferredandgotothem，Gracie。I’mgivinguptheparishandaskingforachaplaincy。"
　　"Givingup？Afterallthistime？IsitbecauseofNollie？"
　　"No，Ithinknot;Ithinkthetimehascome。Ifeelmyworkhereisbarren。"
　　"Oh，no！Andevenifitis，it’sonlybecause——"
　　Piersonsmiled。"Becauseofwhat，Gracie？"
　　"Dad，it’swhatI’vefeltinmyself。Wewanttothinkanddecidethingsforourselves，wewanttoownourconsciences，wecan’ttakethingsatsecond—handanylonger。"
　　Pierson’sfacedarkened。"Ah！"hesaid，"tohavelostfaithisagrievousthing。"
　　"We’regainingcharity，"criedGratian。
　　"Thetwothingsarenotopposed，mydear。"
　　"Notintheory;butinpracticeIthinktheyoftenare。Oh，Dad！
　　youlooksotired。Haveyoureallymadeupyourmind？Won’tyoufeellost？"
　　"Foralittle。Ishallfindmyself，outthere。"
　　ButthelookonhisfacewastoomuchforGratian’scomposure，andsheturnedaway。
　　Piersonwentdowntohisstudytowritehisletterofresignation。
　　Sittingbeforethatblanksheetofpaper，herealisedtothefullhowstronglyhehadresentedthepubliccondemnationpassedonhisownfleshandblood，howmuchhisactionwastheexpressionofapurelymundanechampionshipofhisdaughter;ofamundanemortification。
　　’Pride，’hethought。’OughtItostayandconquerit？’Twicehesethispendown，twicetookitupagain。Hecouldnotconquerit。Tostaywherehewasnotwanted，onasortofsufferance——never！Andwhilehesatbeforethatemptysheetofpaperhetriedtodothehardestthingamancando——toseehimselfasothersseehim;andmetwithsuchsuccessasonemightexpect——harkingatoncetotheverdicts，notofothersatall，butofhisownconscience;andcomingsoontothatperpetualgnawingsensewhichhadpossessedhimeversincethewarbegan，thatitwashisdutytobedead。Thisfeelingthattobealivewasunworthyofhimwhensomanyofhisflockhadmadethelastsacrifice，wasreinforcedbyhisdomestictragedyandthebitterdisillusionmentithadbrought。Asenseofhavinglostcasteweighedonhim，whilehesattherewithhispastrecedingfromhim，dustyandunreal。Hehadthequeerestfeelingofhisoldlifefallingfromhim，droppingroundhisfeetliketheoutwornscalesofaserpent，rungafterrungoftasksanddutiesperformeddayafterday，yearafteryear。Hadtheyeverbeenquitereal？Well，hehadshedthemnow，andwastomoveoutintolifeilluminedbythegreatreality—death！Andtakinguphispen，hewrotehisresignation。
　　XI
　　ThelastSunday，sunnyandbright！Thoughhedidnotaskhertogo，GratianwenttoeveryServicethatday。Andthesightofher，afterthislonginterval，intheiroldpew，whereoncehehadbeenwonttoseehiswife’sface，anddrawrefreshmenttherefrom，affectedPiersonmorethananythingelse。Hehadtoldnooneofhiscomingdeparture，shrinkingfromthefalsityandsuppressionwhichmustunderlieeveryallusionandexpressionofregret。Inthelastminuteofhislastsermonhewouldtellthem！Hewentthroughthedayinasortofdream。Trulyproudandsensitive，underthissocialblight，heshrankfromallalike，madenoattempttosingleoutsupportersoradherentsfromthosewhohadfallenaway。Heknewtherewouldbesome，perhapsmany，seriouslygrievedthathewasgoing;buttotryandrealisewhotheywere，toweightheminthescalesagainsttherestandsoforth，wasquiteagainsthisnature。Itwasallornothing。Butwhenforthelasttimeofallthosehundreds，hemountedthestepsofhisdarkpulpit，heshowednotraceoffinality，didnotperhapsevenfeelityet。Forsobeautifulasummereveningthecongregationwaslarge。Inspiteofallreticence，rumourwasbusyandcuriositystillrife。Thewritersoftheletters，anonymousandotherwise，hadspentaweek，notindeedinproclaimingwhattheyhaddone，butinjustifyingtothemselvesthesecretfactthattheyhaddoneit。AndthiswasbestachievedbyspeakingtotheirneighboursoftheseriousandawkwardsituationofthepoorVicar。
　　Theresultwasvisibleinabetterattendancethanhadbeenseensincesummer—timebegan。
　　Piersonhadneverbeenagreatpreacher，hisvoicelackedresonanceandpliancy，histhoughtbreadthandbuoyancy，andhewasnotfreefrom，thesing—songwhichmarstheutteranceofmanywhohavetospeakprofessionally。Buthealwaysmadeanimpressionofgoodnessandsincerity。OnthislastSundayeveninghepreachedagainthefirstsermonhehadeverpreachedfromthatpulpit，freshfromthehoneymoonwithhisyoungwife。"Solomoninallhisglorywasnotarrayedlikeoneofthese。"Itlackednowthehappyfervourofthatmosthappyofallhisdays，yetgainedpoignancy，comingfromsowornafaceandvoice。Gratian，whoknewthathewasgoingtoendwithhisfarewell，wasinachokeofemotionlongbeforehecametoit。
　　Shesatwinkingawayhertears，andnottillhepaused，forsolongthatshethoughthisstrengthhadfailed，didshelookup。Hewasleaningalittleforward，seemingtoseenothing;buthishands，graspingthepulpit’sedge，werequivering。TherewasdeepsilenceintheChurch，forthelookofhisfaceandfigurewasstrange，eventoGratian。Whenhislipspartedagaintospeak，amistcoveredhereyes，andshelostsightofhim。
　　"Friends，Iamleavingyou;thesearethelastwordsIshalleverspeakinthisplace。Igotootherwork。Youhavebeenverygoodtome。Godhasbeenverygoodtome。IpraywithmywholeheartthatHemayblessyouall。Amen！Amen！"
　　Themistclearedintotears，andshecouldseehimagaingazingdownather。Wasitather？Hewassurelyseeingsomething——somevisionsweeterthanreality，somethinghelovedmoredearly。Shefellonherknees，andburiedherfaceinherhand。Allthroughthehymnsheknelt，andthroughhisclearslowBenediction:"ThepeaceofGod，whichpassethallunderstanding，keepyourheartsandmindsintheknowledgeandloveofGod，andofhisSonJesusChristourLord;andtheblessingofGodAlmighty，theFather，theSon，andtheHolyGhost，beamongstyouandremainwithyoualways。"Andstillsheknelton;tillshewasaloneintheChurch。Thensheroseandstolehome。Hedidnotcomein;shedidnotexpecthim。’It’sover，’shekeptthinking;’allover。MybelovedDaddy！Nowhehasnohome;
　　NollieandIhavepulledhimdown。AndyetIcouldn’thelpit，andperhapsshecouldn’t。PoorNollie！……’
　　2
　　Piersonhadstayedinthevestry，talkingwithhischoirandwardens;
　　therewasnohitch，forhisresignationhadbeenaccepted，andhehadarrangedwithafriendtocarryontillthenewVicarwasappointed。
　　WhentheyweregonehewentbackintotheemptyChurch，andmountedtotheorgan—loft。Alittlewindowuptherewasopen，andhestoodleaningagainstthestone，lookingout，restinghiswholebeing。
　　Onlynowthatitwasoverdidheknowwhatstresshehadbeenthrough。Sparrowswerechirping，butsoundoftraffichadalmostceased，inthatquietSundayhouroftheeveningmeal。Finished！
　　Incrediblethathewouldnevercomeuphereagain，neverseethoseroof—lines，thatcornerofSquareGarden，andhearthisfamiliarchirpingofthesparrows。Hesatdownattheorganandbegantoplay。Thelasttimethesoundwouldrolloutandecho’roundtheemptiedHouseofGod。Foralongtimeheplayed，whilethebuildingdarkenedslowlydowntherebelowhim。Ofallthathewouldleave，hewouldmissthismost——therighttocomeandplayhereinthedarkeningChurch，toreleaseemotionalsoundinthisdimemptyspacegrowingevermorebeautiful。Fromchordtochordhelethimselfgodeeperanddeeperintothesurgeandswellofthosesoundwaves，losingallsenseofactuality，tillthemusicandthewholedarkbuildingwerefusedinonerapturoussolemnity。AwaydowntherethedarknesscreptovertheChurch，tillthepews，thealtar—allwasinvisible，savethecolumns;andthewalls。HebeganplayinghisfavouriteslowmovementfromBeethoven’sSeventhSymphony——kepttotheend，forthevisionsiteverbroughthim。Andacat，whichhadbeenstalkingthesparrows，creptinthroughthelittlewindow，andcrouched，startled，staringathimwithhergreeneyes。Heclosedtheorgan，wentquicklydown，andlockeduphisChurchforthelasttime。Itwaswarmeroutsidethanin，andlighter，fordaylightwasnotquitegone。Hemovedawayafewyards，andstoodlookingup。
　　Walls，buttresses，andspirewereclothedinmilkyshadowygrey。Thetopofthespireseemedtotouchastar。’Goodbye，myChurch！’hethought。’Good—bye，good—bye！’Hefelthisfacequiver;clenchedhisteeth，andturnedaway。