orts
to help my poor parishioners during this hard weather. While I spoke
he said not a word, but sat with a vacant face, as though he were not
listening to me. When I had finished he took up his pen. 'How much will
it take to do the church?' he asked. 'A thousand pounds,' I answered;
'but we have already raised three hundred among ourselves. The Squire
has very handsomely given fifty pounds.' 'Well,' said he, 'how about
the poor folk? How many families are there?' 'About three hundred,' I
answered. 'And coals, I believe, are at about a pound a ton', said he.
'Three tons ought to see them through the rest of the winter. Then you
can get a very fair pair of blankets for two pounds. That would make
five pounds per family, and seven hundred for the church.' He dipped his
pen in the ink, and, as I am a living man, Robert, he wrote me a cheque
then and there for two thousand two hundred pounds. I don't know what
I said; I felt like a fool; I could not stammer out words with which
to thank him. All my troubles have been taken from my shoulders in an
instant, and indeed, Robert, I can hardly realise it."

"He must be a most charitable man."

"Extraordinarily so. And so unpretending. One would think that it was
I who was doing the favour and he who was the beggar. I thought of that
passage about making the heart of the widow sing for joy. He made my
heart sing for joy, I can tell you. Are you coming up to the Vicarage?"

"No, thank you, Mr. Spurling. I must go home and get to work on my new
picture. It's a five-foot canvas--the landing of the Romans in Kent. I
must have another try for the Academy. Good-morning."

He raised his hat and continued down the road, while the vicar turned
off into the path which led to his home.

Robert McIntyre had converted a large bare room in the upper storey of
Elmdene into a studio, and thither he retreated after lunch. It was
as well that he should have some little den of his own, for his father
would talk of little save of his ledgers and accounts, while Laura
had become peevish and querulous since the one tie which held her
to Tamfield had been removed. The chamber was a bare and bleak one,
un-papered and un-carpeted, but a good fire sparkled in the grate, and
two large windows gave him the needful light. His easel stood in the
centre, with the great canvas balanced across it, while against the
walls there leaned his two last attempts, "The Murder of Thomas of
Canterbury" and "The Signi