re
upon their _Giver_. But the fig tree did not wither; the vines did not
perish; the olive did not fail. The pestilence did not touch my
children; the flames did not destroy my goods. Accept the thanks of Thy
servant this day and help him, all his days, _to rejoice in the Lord and
to joy in the God of his salvation_.'

And the records show that Walter Petherick lived to enjoy long life,
abounding wealth, great honors, and the clinging affection of his
children's children. And ever in his heart he cherished a deep, deep
secret and sang a rapturous song. For he reveled, not only in the
_gifts_, but in the _Giver_. He rejoiced in _the Lord_ and joyed in _the
God of his salvation_.

XIII

DOCTOR BLUND'S TEXT

I

The doctor was the worst man in Bartown, and that was saying a good
deal. For Bartown had the reputation of being 'the wickedest little hole
in all England.' It is Harold Begbie who, in _The Vigil_, tells its
story. Dr. Blund, he assures us, spent most of his time drinking gin and
playing billiards at 'The Angel.' In a professional point of view, only
one person in the little seaside town believed in him, and that was the
broken and bedraggled little woman whose whole life had been darkened by
his debauchery. Mrs. Blund was never tired of singing the doctor's
praises. When she introduced him to a newcomer, and told of his wondrous
cures and amazing skill, he listened like a man in a dream. 'Dr.
Blund,'--so runs the story--'Dr. Blund was twitching with excess of
alcohol, and only muttered and frowned as his wife talked of his powers.
The terrible old doctor, with his hairy, purple face and his sunken
eyes, seemed to think that his wife was doing him the most dreadful
dis-service. It was wonderful that this little woman, instead of
shrinking from exhibiting her husband, should have so pathetic a faith
in the dreadful-looking rogue that she evidently fancied that he had but
to be seen to be chosen as medical adviser.'

Thus the story opens. It could scarcely be expected that such a wreck
could hold together for long. Exactly half-way through the book I find
Mr. Rodwell, the young rector, standing at the street-corner talking to
Mr. Shorder, the wealthy manufacturer. They are interrupted. Mrs. Blund
comes hurrying breathlessly round the corner.

'Mr. Rodwell,' she pants, 'please come at once! Dr. Blund! He's asking
for you! I've been to the vicarage, I've been everywhere, hunting for
you. Don't delay