They soon became so, and in the weeks that followed he grew to have the odd sense of a guiding hand on his shoulder,—­such was his instinctive interpretation of it, rather than the materialistic one of things ordained.  He might turn, in obedience to what seemed a whim, either to the right or left, only to recognize new blazes that led him on with surer step; and trivial accidents became events charged with meaning.  He lived in continual wonder.

One broiling morning, for instance, he gathered up the last of the books whose contents he had a month before so feverishly absorbed, and which had purged him of all fallacies.  At first he had welcomed them with a fierce relief, sucked them dry, then looked upon them with loathing.  Now he pressed them gratefully, almost tenderly, as he made his way along the shady side of the street towards the great library set in its little park.

He was reminded, as he passed from the blinding sunlight into the cool entrance hall, with its polished marble stairway and its statuary, that Eldon Parr’s munificence had made the building possible:  that some day Mr. Parr’s bust would stand in that vestibule with that of Judge Henry Goodrich—­Philip Goodrich’s grandfather—­and of other men who had served their city and their commonwealth.

Upstairs, at the desk, he was handing in the volumes to the young woman whose duty it was to receive them when he was hailed by a brisk little man in an alpaca coat, with a skin like brown parchment.

“Why, Mr. Hodder,” he exclaimed cheerfully, with a trace of German accent, “I had an idea you were somewhere on the cool seas with our friend, Mr. Parr.  He spoke, before he left, of inviting you.”

It had been Eldon Parr, indeed, who had first brought Hodder to the library, shortly after the rector’s advent, and Mr. Engel had accompanied them on a tour of inspection; the financier himself had enjoined the librarian to “take good care” of the clergyman.  Mr. Waring, Mr. Atterbury; and Mr. Constable were likewise trustees.  And since then, when talking to him, Hodder had had a feeling that Mr. Engel was not unconscious of the aura—­if it may be called such—­of his vestry.

Mr. Engel picked up one of the books as it lay on the counter, and as he read the title his face betrayed a slight surprise.

“Modern criticism!” he exclaimed.

“You have found me out,” the rector acknowledged, smiling.

“Came into my room, and have a chat,” said the librarian, coaxingly.

It was a large chamber at the corner of the building, shaded by awnings, against which brushed the branches of an elm which had belonged to the original park.  In the centre of the room was a massive oak desk, one whole side of which was piled high with new volumes.

“Look there,” said the librarian, with a quick wave of his hand, “those are some which came in this week, and I had them put here to look over.  Two-thirds of ’em on religion, or religious philosophy.  Does that suggest anything to you clergymen?”