“It was he who sacrificed his time for me!” he continued, moving restlessly about the room.  “But I seem to remember I told you.  Didn’t I tell you—­or was it some one else?—­how he gave up the hours which should have been hours of repose in order that my will might be strengthened, that I might be developed into a man more worthy to be his coadjutor?  When I think, when I remember—­”

His light, tenor voice failed.  Tears stood in his gentle, blue eyes.

“If I am worth anything at all,” he suddenly cried out, “if I have gained any force of character, any power for good at all, I owe it all to my rector’s self-sacrificing endeavors on my behalf—­of course, through God’s blessing.”

“Then,” said Malling, “you think that Mr. Harding changed you by his influence?”

“He helped me to develop, he brought me on.  Jealousy was unknown to him.  I was a very poor preacher.  He taught me how to hold people’s attention.  When I knew he was near me I sometimes seemed almost inspired.  I was inspired by him.  I preached almost as if out of his mouth.  And now!”

He made a despairing gesture.

“Now it will all be different!” he exclaimed.

And almost involuntarily Malling found himself echoing: 

“Yes, now it will all be different.”

He had seen, he had heard, enough to make his report to the professor, and he resolved to go.  He held out his hand.

“Oh, but,” said Chichester, pressing one hand to his forehead, “I’m so selfish, so forgetful in my great grief!  Surely you said you had come on some matter of importance.”

“It will wait,” said Malling.  “Another day.  Go and rest now.  You need rest.  Any one can see that.”

“Thank you, thank you,” said Chichester, with quivering lips.  “You are very thoughtful, very good.”

Malling took his hand in farewell.  As he did so there was a sharp knock at the front door.  Chichester started violently.

“Oh, I do hope it is no one for me!” he cried out.  “I cannot—­”

He opened the door of the sitting-room a little way and listened.  Voices were audible below, Ellen’s voice and another woman’s.

“You, ma’am!  Oh, of course he will see you!”

“Of course.”

“I didn’t know who it was, ma’am.”

“Is it this way?”

“Yes, ma’am.  I’ll show you.  We do feel it, ma’am.  The poor gentleman used to come here so often of nights.”

“Did he?  I didn’t know that.”

Malling recognized the second voice as Lady Sophia’s.  A moment, and she was ushered into the room.  She was dressed in black, but not in widow’s weeds, and wore a veil which she pushed hastily up as she came in almost with a rush.  When she saw Malling, for a moment she looked disconcerted.

“Oh, I thought—­” she began.  She stood still.  Chichester said nothing, and did not move.  Malling went toward her.

“I was very much grieved,” he said, “at the news I heard to-day.”