“I know how he would talk exactly,” I returned.  “He has a kind of loving banter with him, if you will allow me the expression, that is irresistible to any man with a heart in his bosom.  I am very glad to hear there is anything like communion begun between them.  Weir will get good from him.”

“My man-of-all-work is going to leave me.  I wonder if the old man would take his place?”

“I do not know whether he is fit for it.  But of one thing you may be sure—­if Old Rogers does not honestly believe he is fit for it, he will not take it.  And he will tell you why, too.”

“Of that, however, I think I may be a better judge than he.  There is nothing to which a good sailor cannot turn his hand, whatever he may think himself.  You see, Mr Walton, it is not like a routine trade.  Things are never twice the same at sea.  The sailor has a thousand chances of using his judgment, if he has any to use; and that Old Rogers has in no common degree.  So I should have no fear of him.  If he won’t let me steer him, you must put your hand to the tiller for me.”

“I will do what I can,” I answered; “for nothing would please me more than to see him in your service.  It would be much better for him, and his wife too, than living by uncertain jobs as he does now.”

The result of it all was, that Old Rogers consented to try for a month; but when the end of the month came, nothing was said on either side, and the old man remained.  And I could see several little new comforts about the cottage, in consequence of the regularity of his wages.

Now I must report another occurrence in regular sequence.

To my surprise, and, I must confess, not a little to my discomposure, when I rose in the reading-desk on the day after this dinner with Dr Duncan, I saw that the Hall-pew was full.  Miss Oldcastle was there for the first time, and, by her side, the gentleman whom the day before I had encountered on horseback.  He sat carelessly, easily, contentedly—­indifferently; for, although I never that morning looked up from my Prayer-book, except involuntarily in the changes of posture, I could not help seeing that he was always behind the rest of the congregation, as if he had no idea of what was coming next, or did not care to conform.  Gladly would I, that day, have shunned the necessity of preaching that was laid upon me.  “But,” I said to myself, “shall the work given me to do fare ill because of the perturbation of my spirit?  No harm is done, though I suffer; but much harm if one tone fails of its force because I suffer.”  I therefore prayed God to help me; and feeling the right, because I felt the need, of looking to Him for aid, I cast my care upon Him, kept my thoughts strenuously away from that which discomposed me, and never turned my eyes towards the Hall-pew from the moment I entered the pulpit.  And partly, I presume, from the freedom given by the sense of irresponsibility for the result, I being