of his host; as he watched the second priest's eyes
looking gently and pleasantly about him; as he ate the plain, good food
and drank the country drink, that, in spite of all, his lot was cast in
very sweet places. There was not a hint here of disturbance, or of men's
passions, or of ugly strife: there was no clatter, as in the streets of
Derby, or pressure of humanity, or wearying politics of the
market-place. He found himself in one of those moods that visit all men
sometimes, when the world appears, after all, a homely and a genial
place; when the simplest things are the best; when no excitement or
ambition or furious zeal can compare with the gentle happiness of a
tired body that is in the act of refreshment, or of a driven mind that
is finding its relaxation. At least, he said to himself, he would enjoy
this night and the next day and the night after, with all his heart.

* * * * *

The four found themselves so much at ease here, that the dessert was
brought in to them where they sat; and it was then that the first
unhappy word was spoken.

"Mr. Simpson!" said Garlick suddenly. "Is there any more news of him?"

Mr. John shook his head.

"He hath not yet been to church, thank God!" he said. "So much I know
for certain. But he hath promised to go."

"Why is he not yet gone? He promised a great while ago."

"I hear he hath been sick. Derby gaol is a pestiferous place. They are
waiting, I suppose, till he is well enough to go publicly, that all the
world may be advertised of it!"

Mr. Garlick gave a bursting sigh.

"I cannot understand it at all," he said. "There has never been so
zealous a priest. I have ridden with him again and again before I was a
priest. He was always quiet; but I took him to be one of those
stout-hearted souls that need never brag. Why, it was here that we heard
him tell of Mr. Nelson's death!"

Mr. John threw out his hands.

"These prisons are devilish," he said; "they wear a man out as the rack
can never do. Why, see my son!" he cried. "Oh! I can speak of him if I
am but moved enough! It was that same Derby gaol that wore him out too!
It is the darkness, and the ill food, and the stenches and the misery. A
man's heart fails him there, who could face a thousand deaths in the
sunlight. Man after man hath fallen there--both in Derby, and in London
and in all the prisons. It is their heart that goes--all the courage
runs from them like water, with their