ought to have come out for his sake, and to show they
did not care. "I do care," said Harold. And when Eustace, with his
usual taste, mentioned that they had laughed at the poor fellow led
meekly home by his aunt, Harold laid a kind hand on mine, which spoke
more than words. I had reason to think that his struggle lasted some
time longer, and that the enemy he had reawakened was slow of being
laid to rest, so that he was for weeks undergoing the dire conflict;
but he gave as little sign as possible, and he certainly conquered.

And from that time there certainly was a change. He was not a man
without God any longer. He had learnt that he could not keep himself
straight, and had enough of the childlike nature to believe there was
One who could. I don't mean that he came at once to be all I could
have wished or figured to myself as a religious man. He went to church
on Sunday morning now, chiefly, I do believe, for love of the
Confession, which was the one voice for his needs; and partly, too,
because I had pressed for that outward token, thinking that it would
lead him on to more; but it generally seemed more weariness than
profit, and he never could sit still five minutes without falling
asleep, so that he missed even those sermons of Mr. Ben Yolland's that
I thought must do him good.

I tried once, when, feeling how small my powers were beside his, to get
him to talk to this same Mr. Yolland, whose work among the pottery
people he tried to second, but he recoiled with a tone half scorn, half
reserve, which showed that he would bear no pressure in that direction.
Only he came to my sitting-room every morning, as if kneeling with me a
few moments, and reading a few short verses, were to be his safeguard
for the day, and sometimes he would ask me a question. Much did I long
for counsel in dealing with him, but I durst seek none, except once,
when something Mr. Ben Yolland said about his having expressed strong
affection for me, made me say, "If only I were fitter to deal with
him," the answer was, "Go on as you are doing; that is better for him
as yet than anything else."

CHAPTER IX.

THE CHAMPION'S BELT.

After all, the fates sent us a chaperon. A letter came addressed to my
mother, and proved to be from the clergyman of a village in the
remotest corner of Devonshire, where a cousin of my father had once
been vicar. His widow, the daughter of his predecessor, had lived on
there, but, owing to the