te.

"Hi!" called Carrick, and they turned toward him as he came down the
bank, with his sly spaniel shambling at his heels.

The curate looked with disfavor at Carrick's worn tweed clothes and
his general week-day effect. "I think," he said primly, "I'll be
getting along."

"I should," said Carrick shortly, turning his back on him. "I want to
speak to you, Newman."

"Then we will walk together," agreed Mr. Newman. "Good-bye till this
evening," he called after the departing curate.

It was an afternoon of June, languid and fragrant; the declining sun
was in their faces as they went in company under the high arches of
the elms, in a queer contrast of costume and personality. Carrick,
the man of science, the adventurer in the bypaths of knowledge,
affronted the Sabbath in the clothes which gave offence to the
curate. He was a thin, impatient man, standing on the brink of middle
age, with the hard, intent face of one accustomed to verify the
evidence of his own senses. A habit he had of doing his thinking in
the open air had left him tanned and limber; he walked easily, with
the light foot of an athlete, while Mr. Newman, decorous in the black
clothes which are the uniform of the regular churchgoer, trod
deliberately at his side and mopped his brow with a handkerchief.

"It was very warm in the church this afternoon," explained Mr. Newman
mildly. "Very warm."

He was an older man than Carrick, and altogether a riper and most
complacent figure. He had a large and benevolent face, which would
have been common-place but for a touch of steadfastness and serenity
which dignified it, and an occasional vivacity of the kindly eyes.
One perceived in him a man who had come smoothly through life, secure
in plain faiths and clear hopes, unafraid of destiny. Something
reverend in his general effect accentuated his difference from his
companion.

"Ventilation," Carrick was saying. "On an afternoon like this you
might as well shut those children up in a family vault. Twenty of
them, all breathing carbonic acid gas, besides yourself--and that
ass!"

"You mean the curate?" inquired Mr. Newman. "Really, he isn't an ass.
He didn't like your clothes--that was all."

"What's the matter with 'em?" demanded Carrick, inspecting his shabby
sleeve. "You don't want me to dress up like--like you, do you?"

"My dear fellow!" Mr. Newman smiled protestingly, lifting a suave
hand. "I don't care how you dress. I don't want you to 'make broa