as aware--I don't know how--that Mr. Harding
was dead. I moved. I looked at my watch. It was a minute after half-past
three. I noted down the time. And this morning--I heard."

"And then?"

"Only then I understood my loss--the loss to us all. Ah, Mr. Mailing,
you knew him, but not as I did! Few or none knew him as I did. He was
the greatest and best of men, full of power, but full of kindness and
goodness, too. He guided me in everything. I can never tell you how I
looked up to him, how I trusted him. His judgment was extraordinary, his
reading of character was unerring. I do believe he knew me better than I
knew myself. What shall I do without him?"

The curate's grief was almost as genuine and unself-conscious as a
child's, and Malling felt as if at that moment, like a child, he felt
himself adrift in a difficult world. His gentle, kindly, but not strong
face was distorted, but not hardened, by his distress, which seemed
begging for sympathy. And Malling remembered the Henry Chichester he had
known some years ago, before the days of St. Joseph's, the saintly but
rather weak man, beloved by every one, but ruling no one. That man was
surely before him, and that man knew not how to play a hypocrite's part.
Yet Malling felt he must test him.

"His death is very sad," he replied; "but surely his powers had been on
the decline for a long while."

"His powers, but not his capacity for goodness. His patience was
angelic. Even when the cruelest blow of all fell upon him, even when
his wife--whom, God forgive me! I don't think some of us can ever
forgive--even when she deserted him in his hour of need, he never
complained. He knew it was God's hand upon him, and he submitted.
He has taught me what true patience is. What I owe to him! What I owe
to him!"

As if distressed beyond measure, the curate got up, almost wringing his
thin hands.

"It was he who sacrificed his time for me!" he continued, moving
restlessly about the room. "But I seem to remember I told you. Didn't I
tell you--or was it some one else?--how he gave up the hours which should
have been hours of repose in order that my will might be strengthened,
that I might be developed into a man more worthy to be his coadjutor?
When I think, when I remember--"

His light, tenor voice failed. Tears stood in his gentle, blue eyes.

"If I am worth anything at all," he suddenly cried out, "if I have gained
any force of character, any power for good at all, I owe it