they seem to dislike.  I have known such whose manner was fit to imply entire disapprobation of the very existence of those upon whom they looked for the first time.  They might then have been saying to themselves, “I would never have created such people!” Had I not known them, I could not have imagined them lovers of God or man, though they were of both.  True courtesy, that is, courtesy born of a true heart, is a most lovely, and absolutely indispensable grace—­one that nobody but a Christian can thoroughly develop.  God grant us a “coming-on disposition,” as Shakespeare calls it.  Who shall tell whose angel stands nearer to the face of the Father?  Should my brother stand lower in the social scale than I, shall I not be the more tender, and respectful, and self-refusing toward him, that God has placed him there who may all the time be greater than I?  A year before, Helen could hardly endure doughy Mrs. Bevis, but now she had found something to like in her, and there was confidence and faith between them.  So there they sat, the elder lady meandering on, and Helen, who had taken care to bring some work with her, every now and then casting a bright glance in her face, or saying two or three words with a smile, or asking some simple question.  Mrs. Bevis talked chiefly of the supposed affairs and undoubted illness of Miss Meredith, concerning both of which rather strange reports had reached her.

Meantime the gentlemen were walking through the park in earnest conversation.  They crossed the little brook and climbed to the heath on the other side.  There the rector stood, and turning to his companion, said: 

“It’s rather late in the day for a fellow to wake up, ain’t it, Wingfold?  You see I was brought up to hate fanaticism, and that may have blinded me to something you have seen and got a hold of.  I wish I could just see what it is, but I never was much of a theologian.  Indeed I suspect I am rather stupid in some things.  But I would fain try to look my duty in the face.  It’s not for me to start up and teach the people, because I ought to have been doing it all this time:  I’ve got nothing to teach them.  God only knows whether I haven’t been breaking every one of the commandments I used to read to them every Sunday.”

“But God does know, sir,” said the curate, with even more than his usual respect in his tone, “and that is well, for otherwise we might go on breaking them forever.”

The rector gave him a sudden look, full in the face, but said nothing, seemed to fall a thinking, and for some time was silent.

“There’s one thing clear,” he resumed:  “I’ve been taking pay, and doing no work.  I used to think I was at least doing no harm—­that I was merely using one of the privileges of my position:  I not only paid a curate, but all the repair the church ever got was from me.  Now, however, for the first time, I reflect that the money was not given me for that.  Doubtless it has been all the better for