ching of logarithms. And the rector mused so long that
when he began again it seemed to him that it was simpler and better to
discard the personal note altogether, and he wrote:

"There are times, gentlemen, in the life of a parish, when it comes to
an epoch which brings it to a moment when it reaches a point--"

The Dean stuck fast again, but refusing this time to be beaten went
resolutely on:

"--reaches a point where the circumstances of the moment make the epoch
such as to focus the life of the parish in that time."

Then the Dean saw that he was beaten, and he knew that he not only
couldn't manage the parish but couldn't say so in proper English, and of
the two the last was the bitterer discovery.

He raised his head, and looked for a moment through the window at the
shadow of the church against the night, so outlined that you could
almost fancy that the light of the New Jerusalem was beyond it. Then he
wrote, and this time not to the world at large but only to Mullins:

"My dear Harry, I want to resign my charge. Will you come over and help
me?"

When the Dean at last rose from writing that, I think it was far on in
the night. As he rose he looked again through the window, looked once
and then once more, and so stood with widening eyes, and his face set
towards what he saw.

What was that? That light in the sky there, eastward?--near or far he
could not say. Was it already the dawn of the New Jerusalem brightening
in the east, or was it--look--in the church itself,--what is that?--that
dull red glow that shines behind the stained-glass windows, turning them
to crimson? that fork of flame that breaks now from the casement and
flashes upward, along the wood--and see--that sudden sheet of fire that
springs the windows of the church with the roar of splintered glass and
surges upward into the sky, till the dark night and the bare trees and
sleeping street of Mariposa are all illumined with its glow!

Fire! Fire! and the sudden sound of the bell now, breaking upon the
night.

So stood the Dean erect, with one hand pressed against the table for
support, while the Mariposa fire bell struck out its warning to the
sleeping town,--stood there while the street grew loud with the tumult
of voices,--with the roaring gallop of the fire brigade,--with the harsh
note of the gong--and over all other sounds, the great seething of the
flames that tore their way into the beams and rafters of the pointed
church and flare