“If it be true, as I have heard ever since I came,” said Mr. Drake, “that Lord de Barre means to pull down the house and plow up the garden, and if he be so short of money as they say, he might perhaps take a few thousands for it.  The Lythe bounds the estate, and there makes a great loop, so that a portion might be cut off by a straight line from one arm of the curve to the other, which would be quite outside the park.  I will set some inquiry on foot.  I have wished for a long time to leave the river, only we had a lease.  The Old House is nothing like so low as the one we are in now.  Besides, as I propose, we should have space to build, if we found it desirable, on the level of the park.”

When they reached the gate on their return, a second dwarfish figure, a man, pigeon-chested, short-necked, and asthmatic—­a strange, gnome-like figure, came from the lodge to open it.  Every body in Glaston knew Polwarth the gatekeeper.

“How is the asthma to-night, Mr. Polwarth?” said the pastor.  He had not yet got rid of the tone in which in his young days he had been accustomed to address the poor of his flock—­a tone half familiar, half condescending.  To big ships barnacles will stick—­and may add weeks to the length of a voyage too.

“Not very bad, thank you, Mr. Drake.  But, bad or not, it is always a friendly devil,” answered the little man.

“I am ast——­ a little surprised to hear you use such——­express yourself so, Mr. Polwarth,” said the minister.

The little man laughed a quiet, huskily melodious, gently merry laugh.

“I am not original in the idea, and scarcely so in my way of expressing it.  I am sorry you don’t like it, Mr. Drake,” he said.  “I found it in the second epistle to the Corinthians last night, and my heart has been full of it ever since.  It is surely no very bad sign if the truth should make us merry at a time!  It ought to do so, I think, seeing merriment is one of the lower forms of bliss.”

“I am at a loss to understand you, Mr. Polwarth,” said the minister.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Drake.  I will come to the point.  In the passage I refer to St. Paul says:  ’There was given to me a thorn in the flesh, the messenger of Satan to buffet me, lest I should be exalted above measure:’—­am I not right in speaking of such a demon as a friendly one?  He was a gift from God.”

“I had not observed—­that is, I had not taken particular notice of the unusual combination of phrases in the passage,” answered Mr. Drake.  “It is a very remarkable one, certainly.  I remember no other in which a messenger of Satan is spoken of as being given by God.”

“Clearly, sir, St. Paul accepted him as something to be grateful for, so soon as his mission was explained to him; and after that, who is to say what may not be a gift of God!  It won’t do to grumble at any thing—­will it, sir?—­when it may so unexpectedly turn out to be given to us by God.  I begin to suspect that never, until we see a thing plainly a gift of God, can we be sure that we see it right.  I am quite certain the most unpleasant things may be such gifts.  I should be glad enough to part with this asthma of mine, if it pleased God it should depart from me; but would I yield a fraction of what it has brought me, for the best lungs in England?  I trow not!”