CYRIL CULVERHOUSE lived his useful life, full of thought and care for others, honoured, beloved, but with a deep and settled sadness at his heart. He could not forget the woman he loved, he could not forgive himself for having doubted her. Both their lives were blighted by that mistake; and yet, looking back, he knew that he had tried to do his duty. Love seemed a snare of Satan, and he had cut himself free from its meshes. But after that meeting in the churchyard all his doubts vanished, his judgment wavered no longer. There is a power in simple truth, when we meet it face to face, that is stronger than all reasoning upon a chain of possibilities. He was convinced for ever of her guiltlessness, in the hour when he believed her irrevocably lost to him. Could he ever forget that meeting--that one despairing kiss--the sight of her lying at his feet among the rank grass that grows on graves? And she had confessed her love for him, by flying from a loveless marriage. Could he follow her?--search this wide world for her? How small a penance would it be to wander over all the earth for her sake! But he felt he had no right to pursue her. He had wronged her too deeply to persecute her by a pursuit which no sign from her invited. It was for her to make that sign--it was for her to pity and pardon him. ‘Let me go on doing my duty,’ he said to himself, ‘and if it is God’s will that I am to be happy in that way, happiness will come to me. Yes, it will come some day, when I least look for it, as the angels came to Abraham.’ So he went on with his simple unpretending life, working with a quiet earnestness which achieved wonders. It was one of his chief gifts to do all things quietly. He worked almost as silently as the bounteous fertilizing sun. The school was thriving under Emmanuel Joyce’s care. The widow’s heart did verily sing for joy, so sweet was her new life amidst rural sights and sounds, after the squalid misery of the Bridford courts and alleys. The Vicar was delighted to have his old pupil back again. All the cares of the parish were lifted off his shoulders when he had Cyril for his curate. He knew that, if he was luxuriating in scholarly idleness, there was nothing being neglected. When he was wanted Cyril called upon him, and he obeyed the call. He gave of his substance freely at Cyril’s bidding. There could not have been a better alliance. Clement Dulcimer, all sweetness and light, shedding smiles and kindliness upon his parishioners, Cyril Culverhouse, the earnest worker, not withholding reproof when it was needful. Between them they made Little Yafford a model parish, an ideal republic, in a small way.