He was shown into the same room, looking out on the churchyard, where in the first months of his married life, he sat and heard his wife sing her few songs, accompanying them on the little piano he had saved hard to buy for her, until she made him love them.  It had lasted only through those few months; after her first baby died, she rarely sang.  But all the colors and forms of the room were different, and that made it easier to check the lump rising in his throat.  It was the faith of his curate that had thus set his wife before him, although the two would hardly have agreed in any confession narrower than the Apostles’ creed.

When Wingfold entered the room, the rector rose, went halfway to meet him, and shook hands with him heartily.  They seated themselves, and a short silence followed.  But the rector knew it was his part to speak.

“I was in church this morning,” he said, with a half-humorous glance right into the clear gray eyes of his curate.

“So my wife tells me,” returned Wingfold with a smile.

“You didn’t know it then?” rejoined the rector, with now an almost quizzical glance, in which hovered a little doubt.  “I thought you were preaching at me all the time.”

“God forbid!” said the curate; “I was not aware of your presence.  I did not even know you were in the town yesterday.”

“You must have had some one in your mind’s eye.  No man could speak as you did this morning, who addressed mere abstract humanity.”

“I will not say that individuals did not come up before me; how can a man help it where he knows every body in his congregation more or less?  But I give you my word, sir, I never thought of you.”

“Then you might have done so with the greatest propriety,” returned the rector.  “My conscience sided with you all the time.  You found me out.  I’ve got a bit of the muscle they call a heart left in me yet, though it has got rather leathery.—­But what do they mean when they say you are setting the parish by the ears?”

“I don’t know, sir.  I have heard of no quarreling.  I have made some enemies, but they are not very dangerous, and I hope not very bitter ones; and I have made many more friends, I am sure.”

“What they tell me is, that your congregation is divided—­that they take sides for and against you, which is a most undesirable thing, surely!”

“It is indeed; and yet it may be a thing that, for a time, can not be helped.  Was there ever a man with the cure of souls, concerning whom there has not been more or less of such division?  But, if you will have patience with me, sir, I am bold to say, believing in the force and final victory of the truth, there will be more unity by and by.”