ages. At last he found the lyric he sought. One
of its verses held the tag he had remembered so often, but had
forgotten, and wanted that evening, wanted to confirm his own
halting decision:

'In a wife's lap, as in a grave,
Man's airy notions mix with earth.'

He put down the book and switched off the electric light. He lay
a long while in the moonlight, thinking himself far away to
earthen walls and guttering candles. He thought of the chill
penury of lack of blankets that he had known in winter. Also of
the sun's summer glare on white wagon-roads and Kaffir paths.
What wonder that wayfarers' eyes amass many wrinkles around them?
Yet how young one had kept after all; and at what speed one would
age here with electric light and sheets and a stately dinner to
tempt one! 'Man's airy notions.' Yes, he had got some very airy
notions still, whereof the earth was not worthy. Getting old
didn't matter, of course, so much; but he wanted to stick to
doing his own work (his Lord's work) in his own way. He didn't
want to leave like-minded friends in the lurch either. Nor did he
see his way to hug the shore at home with Perpetua, while the
curate braved the 'foam of perilous seas.' Would he ever have the
heart to watch her fresh face spoiling in Africa? Could he bear
to see it wizened and withered in the Tropic of Capricorn? No!

He was soon asleep.

His first waking knowledge was of his friend's asking him the
question, 'Are you going to apply for that living?' He had his
'No!' ready from that last night.

'I'm glad,' his friend said. '"Fly our paths, our feverish
contact fly!" I'd like you to take my advice and be happy yes,
and useful as well as youthful.'

'All right,' smiled Hood from his pillow. 'I mean sailing next
month.'

He went to his home in Kent that same day, and rejoiced in the
Weald. His sister and he made a pilgrimage to Canterbury before
the month was over, from Sevenoaks by way of the Downs.

'This was where Marlowe went to school,' she reminded him. 'I
think he might have been almost as great as Shakespeare, don't
you?'

'I don't know,' Hood answered. 'He was a different sort. I can't
imagine him settled down in middle age at Canterbury like
Shakespeare at Stratford. "His raptures were all air and fire."
His airy notions refused to mix with earth somehow.'

The conversation was not very important, but it showed the
continuing trend of Hood's purpose. He hardened his heart and
went to the Upper