“Oh, dear Mr Sheepshanks!  Those stories in Genesis are some of them too risques altogether,” protested Austin.  “One must draw the line somewhere, you see.  We should be sure to come upon something improper, and just think how I should blush.  Really, you can’t expect me to read such things to boys actually younger than myself, and probably be asked to explain them into the bargain.  There’s the Creation part, it’s true, but surely when one considers how occult all that is one wants to be familiar with the Kabbala and all sorts of mystical works to discover the hidden meaning.  Now I should propose ’The Art of Creation’—­do you know it?  It shows that the only possible creator is Thought, and explains how everything exists in idea before it takes tangible shape.  This applies to the universe at large, as well as to everything we make ourselves.  I’d tell the boys that whenever they think, they are really creating, so that——­”

“I should vastly like to know where you pick up all these extraordinary notions!” interrupted the vicar, who could not for the life of him make out whether Austin was in jest or earnest.  “They’re most dangerous notions, let me tell you, and entirely opposed to sound orthodox Church teaching.  It’s clear to me that your reading wants to be supervised, Austin, by some judicious friend.  There’s an excellent little work I got a few days ago that I think you would like to see.  It’s called ‘The Mission-field in Africa.’  There you’ll find a most remarkable account of all those heathen superstitions——­”

“Where is Africa?” asked Austin, munching a leaf.

“There!” exclaimed Aunt Charlotte.  “That’s Austin all over.  He’ll talk by the hour together about a lot of outlandish nonsense that no sensible person ever heard of, and all the time he doesn’t even know where Africa is upon the map.  What is to be done with such a boy?”

“Well, I think we’ll postpone the question of his teaching in the Sunday-school, at all events,” remarked the vicar, who began to feel rather sorry that he had ever suggested it.  “It’s more than probable that his ideas would be over the children’s heads, and come into collision with what they heard in church.  Well, now I must be going.  You’ll think over that little matter we were speaking of?” he said, as he took a neighbourly leave of his parishioner and ally.

“Indeed I will, and I’ll write to my bankers to-night,” replied that lady cordially.

Then the vicar ambled across the lawn, and Austin accompanied him, as in duty bound, to the garden gate.  Meanwhile, Aunt Charlotte leant comfortably back in her wicker chair, absorbed in pleasant meditation.  The repairs to the roof would, no doubt, run into a little money, but the vicar’s tip about this wonderful company for extracting gold from sea-water made up for any anxiety she might otherwise have experienced upon that score.  What a kind, good man he was—­and so clever in business matters, which, of course,