point, Father Thomas was painting in a book. Books
in those days were often ornamented with very beautiful paintings: and
the one on which the priest was working, represented Peter denying
Christ in the High Priest's palace. He had just painted one side of
Peter's hair, but the other side was still blank. But when the Angel
asked that question, down went the brush.

"Lord, pardon Thy servant!" said Father Thomas humbly. "I am not worthy
to carry so much as the corner of Thy cross after Thee. But I will take
it up, and go forth. Indeed, I did not know I was such a selfish, lazy,
ease-loving man as I am!"

Saint Peter had to put up with only half his hair for the rest of that
day, for Father Thomas determinately washed and wiped his brush, threw a
cloth over his book and painting tools to keep them from the dust, put
on his fur cap, and went off to see the Vicar of Newport.

When a man braces himself up to do something which he does not like for
the love of God, sometimes God makes it a great deal easier and less
disagreeable than he expected to find it. The Vicar was just coming out
of his door as Father Thomas reached it.

"A fine day--peace be with thee!" said he. "Whither go you, Brother?"

"May I have your leave, Father, to visit one of your parishioners--the
smith that dwells about a mile hence, on the Newport road?"

"The saints love you! you may visit every man Jack of my parishioners,
and take my blessing with you!" said the Vicar with a hearty laugh. "I
am not over fond of that same visiting of smiths and tailors and fellows
of that sort. I never know what to say to them, save hear confession,
and they never have nought to say to me. You are cut from another
quality of stuff, I reckon. Go your way, Brother Thomas, and make
decent Christians of them if you can. There's a she-bear lives there: I
wish you luck with her."

And with a farewell nod, the careless Vicar strode away.

"And into such hands as these, men's souls are given!" thought Father
Thomas. "Lord, purify Thy Church! Ah, dear old Bishop! you might well
weep in dying."

He walked on rapidly till he came within sight of the forge. Daniel
Greensmith's ringing blows on the anvil grew more and more distinct and
at last the words he was singing as he worked came to the priest's ears:

"All things turn unto decay,
Fall, and die, and pass away.
Sinketh tower and droppeth wall,
Cloth shall fray and horse shall fall,
Fles