the curate's spirits gradually
decline; his belief in human nature is sadly shaken. Men who openly
oppose, who argue and deny, are comparatively easy to deal with; there is
the excitement of the battle with evil. But a population that listens, and
apparently accepts the message, that is so thankful for little charities,
and always civil, and yet turns away utterly indifferent, what is to be
done with it? Might not the message nearly as well be taken to the cow at
her crib, or the horse at his manger? They, too, would receive a wisp of
sweet hay willingly from the hand.

But the more bitter the experience, the harder the trial, the more
conscientiously the curate proceeds upon his duty, struggling bravely
through the mire. He adds another mile to his daily journey: he denies
himself some further innocent recreation. The cottages in the open fields
are comparatively pleasant to visit, the sweet fresh air carries away
effluvia. Those that are so curiously crowded together in the village are
sinks of foul smell, and may be of worse--places where, if fever come, it
takes hold and quits not. His superior requests him earnestly to refrain
awhile and to take rest, to recruit himself with a holiday--even orders
him to desist from overmuch labour. The man's mind is in it, and he cannot
obey. What is the result?

Some lovely autumn day, at a watering-place, you may perchance be
strolling by the sea, with crowds of well-dressed, happy people on the one
side, and on the other the calm sunlit plain where boats are passing to
and fro. A bath-chair approaches, and a young man clad in black gets out
of it, where some friendly iron railings afford him a support for his
hand. There, step by step, leaning heavily on the rails, he essays to walk
as a child. The sockets of his joints yield beneath him, the limbs are
loose, the ankle twists aside; each step is an enterprise, and to gain a
yard a task. Thus day by day the convalescent strives to accustom the
sinews to their work. It is a painful spectacle; how different, how
strangely altered, from the upright frame and the swift stride that
struggled through the miry lane, perhaps even then bearing the seeds of
disease imbibed in some foul village den, where duty called him!

His wan, white face seems featureless; there is nothing but a pair of
deep-set eyes. But as you pass, and momentarily catch their glance, they
are bright and burning still with living faith.

CHAPTER XVI