ing
turned the talk on religion, Mr. Poodle became diffident.. Gissing,
warmed and cheered by the vital Scotch, was perhaps too direct.

"What ought I to do to 'crucify the old man'?" he said.

Mr. Poodle was rather embarrassed.

"You must mortify the desires of the flesh," he replied. "You must dig
up the old bone of sin that is buried in all our hearts."

There were many more questions Gissing wanted to ask about this, but Mr.
Poodle said he really must be going, as he had a call to pay on Mr. and
Mrs. Chow.

Gissing walked down the path with him, and the curate did indeed set off
toward the Chows'. But Gissing wondered, for a little later he heard a
cheerful canticle upraised in the open fields.

He himself was far from gay. He longed to tear out this malady from his
breast. Poor dreamer, he did not know that to do so is to tear out God
Himself. "Mrs. Spaniel," he said when the laundress next came up from
the village, "you are a widow, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir," she said. "Poor Spaniel was killed by a truck, two years ago
April." Her face was puzzled, but beneath her apron Gissing could see
her tail wagging.

"Don't misunderstand me," he said quickly. "I've got to go away on
business. I want you to bring your children and move into this house
while I'm gone. I'll make arrangements at the bank about paying all the
bills. You can give up your outside washing and devote yourself entirely
to looking after this place."

Mrs. Spaniel was so much surprised that she could not speak. In her
amazement a bright bubble dripped from the end of her curly tongue.
Hastily she caught it in her apron, and apologized.

"How long will you be away, sir?" she asked.

"I don't know. It may be quite a long time."

"But all your beautiful things, furniture and everything," said Mrs.
Spaniel. "I'm afraid my children are a bit rough. They're not used to
living in a house like this--"

"Well," said Gissing, "you must do the best you can. There are some
things more important than furniture. It will be good for your children
to get accustomed to refined surroundings, and it'll be good for my
nephews to have someone to play with. Besides, I don't want them to grow
up spoiled mollycoddles. I think I've been fussing over them too much.
If they have good stuff in them, a little roughening won't do any
permanent harm."

"Dear me," cried Mrs. Spaniel, "what will the neighbours think?"

"They won't," said Gissing. "I don't doubt they'l