ep there seemed to be a
symphony in my ears sounding brass and tinkling cymbals enough
and to spare, but flute-voices of honest pity and sympathy as
well.

In the morning I took Leonard's place in his church. We had the
English Liturgy again. The thatched dome, with much tinier
windows than the windows at home, but much more sun to fill them,
seemed a sort of parable to me that morning. After I had finished
the rite, I stayed on in the church, and spread out two letters
before the Lord, so to speak. One was my schoolmaster's, the
other was that one from Cecilia.

It took me half an hour to feel fairly sure of my answer. But I
felt very sure then just as sure as I had been the night before
but the answer was different.

I thought of my own fold and flock as I read my own friend's
letter. How little the locum tenens seemed to see what I saw in
them! I read Cecilia's letter, and compared 'her view of the
importance of a country cure with my own. After all, I thought,
the latter tended to be an exceptional view in our megalomaniac
days. On the other hand, the locum tenens' view might be rather a
normal one, and so might Cecilia's be. Cecilia's scorn, it was,
that materially helped the answer to come as clearly as it did.
The thought of a Cecilia reigning in that east-country vicarage
seemed no more right than pleasant. It sounds a callous thing to
say, but I left my lonely and convalescent friend with something
of a sigh of relief, and no real misgiving. I felt troubled about
his future certainly, but I saw clearly that I was not meant to
take his place. I hoped to find the man who was meant to take it,
however.

And, by God's help, I believe that I really did find him before
many months were over.

A cousin of mine Richard East had been persuaded by a certain
bishop to accept an urban charge.

I fancy the said bishop had been reared in a rather strait school
of enthusiasts, who regarded work in slums as ideally the best
sphere for clerics of activity. So he had routed my cousin out of
his west-country village, and brought him to a big town--my
cousin, who was an outdoor man from his youth. Curiously enough,
at Cape Town, there was a letter waiting for me from him.
Wouldn't I tell him something about the 'great spaces washed with
sun'? The midland town in general seemed not to have gained his
affections, though he loved his people one by one. 'I want to
clear out,' he wrote, 'for the parish's sake more than for m