“Well,” said Adam, slowly, after a moment’s hesitation, “no.  I don’t remember ever being see-saw in that way, when I’d made my mind up, as you say, that a thing was wrong.  It takes the taste out o’ my mouth for things, when I know I should have a heavy conscience after ’em.  I’ve seen pretty clear, ever since I could cast up a sum, as you can never do what’s wrong without breeding sin and trouble more than you can ever see.  It’s like a bit o’ bad workmanship—­you never see th’ end o’ the mischief it’ll do.  And it’s a poor look-out to come into the world to make your fellow-creatures worse off instead o’ better.  But there’s a difference between the things folks call wrong.  I’m not for making a sin of every little fool’s trick, or bit o’ nonsense anybody may be let into, like some o’ them dissenters.  And a man may have two minds whether it isn’t worthwhile to get a bruise or two for the sake of a bit o’ fun.  But it isn’t my way to be see-saw about anything:  I think my fault lies th’ other way.  When I’ve said a thing, if it’s only to myself, it’s hard for me to go back.”

“Yes, that’s just what I expected of you,” said Arthur.  “You’ve got an iron will, as well as an iron arm.  But however strong a man’s resolution may be, it costs him something to carry it out, now and then.  We may determine not to gather any cherries and keep our hands sturdily in our pockets, but we can’t prevent our mouths from watering.”

“That’s true, sir, but there’s nothing like settling with ourselves as there’s a deal we must do without i’ this life.  It’s no use looking on life as if it was Treddles’on Fair, where folks only go to see shows and get fairings.  If we do, we shall find it different.  But where’s the use o’ me talking to you, sir?  You know better than I do.”

“I’m not so sure of that, Adam.  You’ve had four or five years of experience more than I’ve had, and I think your life has been a better school to you than college has been to me.”

“Why, sir, you seem to think o’ college something like what Bartle Massey does.  He says college mostly makes people like bladders—­just good for nothing but t’ hold the stuff as is poured into ’em.  But he’s got a tongue like a sharp blade, Bartle has—­it never touches anything but it cuts.  Here’s the turning, sir.  I must bid you good-morning, as you’re going to the rectory.”

“Good-bye, Adam, good-bye.”

Arthur gave his horse to the groom at the rectory gate, and walked along the gravel towards the door which opened on the garden.  He knew that the rector always breakfasted in his study, and the study lay on the left hand of this door, opposite the dining-room.  It was a small low room, belonging to the old part of the house—­dark with the sombre covers of the books that lined the walls; yet it looked very cheery this morning as Arthur reached the open window.  For the morning sun fell aslant on the great glass globe with gold fish in it, which stood on a scagliola