“That depends,” said Caleb, turning his head on one side and lowering his voice, with the air of a man who felt himself to be saying something deeply religious.  “You must be sure of two things:  you must love your work, and not be always looking over the edge of it, wanting your play to begin.  And the other is, you must not be ashamed of your work, and think it would be more honorable to you to be doing something else.  You must have a pride in your own work and in learning to do it well, and not be always saying, There’s this and there’s that—­if I had this or that to do, I might make something of it.  No matter what a man is—­I wouldn’t give twopence for him”—­ here Caleb’s mouth looked bitter, and he snapped his fingers—­ “whether he was the prime minister or the rick-thatcher, if he didn’t do well what he undertook to do.”

“I can never feel that I should do that in being a clergyman,” said Fred, meaning to take a step in argument.

“Then let it alone, my boy,” said Caleb, abruptly, “else you’ll never be easy.  Or, if you are easy, you’ll be a poor stick.”

“That is very nearly what Mary thinks about it,” said Fred, coloring.  “I think you must know what I feel for Mary, Mr. Garth:  I hope it does not displease you that I have always loved her better than any one else, and that I shall never love any one as I love her.”

The expression of Caleb’s face was visibly softening while Fred spoke.  But he swung his head with a solemn slowness, and said—­

“That makes things more serious, Fred, if you want to take Mary’s happiness into your keeping.”

“I know that, Mr. Garth,” said Fred, eagerly, “and I would do anything for her.  She says she will never have me if I go into the Church; and I shall be the most miserable devil in the world if I lose all hope of Mary.  Really, if I could get some other profession, business—­ anything that I am at all fit for, I would work hard, I would deserve your good opinion.  I should like to have to do with outdoor things.  I know a good deal about land and cattle already.  I used to believe, you know—­though you will think me rather foolish for it—­that I should have land of my own.  I am sure knowledge of that sort would come easily to me, especially if I could be under you in any way.”

“Softly, my boy,” said Caleb, having the image of “Susan” before his eyes.  “What have you said to your father about all this?”

“Nothing, yet; but I must tell him.  I am only waiting to know what I can do instead of entering the Church.  I am very sorry to disappoint him, but a man ought to be allowed to judge for himself when he is four-and-twenty.  How could I know when I was fifteen, what it would be right for me to do now?  My education was a mistake.”

“But hearken to this, Fred,” said Caleb.  “Are you sure Mary is fond of you, or would ever have you?”