inth, 'that I should prefer getting work in
England.'

'Oh, why,' said Mrs. Beecher. 'Wouldn't it be better to stay in Ireland!
and then we might have Marion somewhere within reach.'

'My dear,' said the Canon, 'we must let Hyacinth decide for himself. I
am sure he knows what is wisest for him to do.'

Hyacinth was not at all sure that he knew what was wisest, and he was
quite certain that he had not decided for himself in any matter of the
slightest importance. He had suggested an English curacy in the vague
hope that it might be easier there to forget his hopes and dreams for
Ireland. It seemed to him, too, that a voluntary exile, of which he
could not think without pain, might be a kind of atonement for the
betrayal of his old enthusiasm.

The Canon followed him to the door when he left.

'My dear boy'--there was a break in his voice as he spoke--' my dear
boy, you have made me very happy. I am sure that you will not enter upon
the work of the ministry from any unworthy motive. The call will become
clearer to you by degrees. I mean the inward call. The outward call, the
leading of circumstance, has already made abundantly plain the way you
ought to walk in. The other will come--the voice which brings assurance
and peace when it speaks.'

Hyacinth looked at him wistfully. There seemed very little possibility
of anything like assurance for him, and only such peace as might be
gained by smothering the cries with which his heart assailed him. The
Canon held his hand and wrung it.

'I can understand why you want to go to England. Your political opinions
will interfere very little with your work there. Here, of course, it
would be different. Yes, your choice is certainly wise, for nothing
must be allowed to hinder your work. "Laying aside every weight," you
remember, "let us run the race." Yes, I understand.'

It was perfectly clear to Hyacinth that the Canon did not understand in
the least. It was not likely that anyone ever would understand.

Gradually his despondency gave way before the crowding in of thoughts of
satisfaction. He was to have Marion, to live with her, to love her, and
be loved by her as long as they both lived. He saw life stretching out
before him, a sunlit, pleasant journey in Marion's company. It did not
seem to him that any trouble could be really bad, any disappointment
intolerable, any toil oppressive with her love for an atmosphere round
him. He believed, too, that the work he was undert