“Ben, old boy, there are no common folk in God’s sight,” he said, “Look there!” and he pointed to the graves that were just beginning to be filled in, “Every creature lying there had as much of God in him as many a king, and perhaps more.  In this majestic universe there is nothing common!”

Ben shuffled one foot before the other uneasily.

“Ay, ay, but there’s few as argify the way o’ life in they lines!” he said, “There’s a many that think—­but there’s a main few that speak.”

“That is true,” said Aubrey, still keeping his hand on Ben’s shoulder, “there’s a main few that speak!  Now, I want to speak, Ben,—­I want to have a talk to you and the rest of our mates about—­ well!—­about the dangers of the sea and other things.  Will you meet me on the shore this evening near the quay and listen to a word or two?”

Ben looked surprised but interested, and a puzzled smile came into his eyes.

“Be ye a goin’ to preach to us like the passon?” he said, “Or like the fellers in the porter’s caps as calls themselves Salvationists?”

Aubrey smiled.

“No!  I only want to say a few parting words to you all.”

“Parting words!” echoed Ben with a stupefied air.

“Yes—­I am going away to-morrow—­going for good.  I have got some other work to do.  But I shall not forget you all . . . and you will hear of me often,—­yes, you will hear of me!—­and some day I will come back.  But to-night . . .  I should just like to say good-bye.”

Ben was secretly much distressed.  “Gentleman Leigh” as he was sometimes called, had greatly endeared himself to their little community, and that he should leave them was not at all a desirable thing, and would, as Ben well knew, cause universal regret.  But there was no time just now for either argument or protestation, so Ben accepted the blow as he accepted all buffetings of fate, and merely said,

“All right!  We’ll be there to-night for sure!” And then Aubrey, gravely content, walked slowly out of the little churchyard still bare-headed, his eyes dark with thought,—­and the reluctant sun came out of the gray sky and shone on his pale face and bright hair—­and one or two of the widowed women timidly touched his arm as he passed, and murmured, “God bless you!” And Mary Bell, the sorrowful and sinning, clinging to the waist of the woman she had wronged, looked up at him appealingly with the strained and hunted gaze of a lost and desperate creature, and as he met her eyes, turned shudderingly away and wept.  And he, knowing that words were useless, and that even the kindliest looks must wound in such a case, passed on in silence, and when he reached his own lodging took some of the newspapers which spoke of himself and his book, and after marking certain passages, tied them up in a packet and sent them to the curate with whom he had crossed swords that morning, accompanied by a note which briefly ran thus:—­