The burying of him was another trouble. She had secured the site she had always wished for herself beneath the willow. She would have liked him to be laid there beside her, but his views and opinions had been too well known to her people. They did not want him among them. There was a neglected corner of the big cemetery set apart for such as he; but to lay him there would be to abandon hope. The Lord would never venture there. Anthony suggested the Church. He undertook to interview the vicar, a kindly old gentleman, who possibly would ask no questions. He found the vicar in the vestry. There had been a meeting of the churchwardens. The Reverend Mr. Sheepskin was a chubby, blue-eyed gentleman. He had heard of Anthony’s uncle. “A very hard nut to crack,” so the vicar had been given to understand. “But was always willing to listen, I gathered,” added the vicar. “So perhaps the fault was ours. We didn’t go about it the right way.” Something moved Anthony to tell the vicar what his uncle had once said to him when he was a child about the world being a very different place if people really did believe all that they say they believe. He wished he hadn’t said it, for the old gentleman sat silent for what seemed quite a long time. “What did they answer him?” he asked at length. “Did he tell you?” “He said they never did answer him that,” replied Anthony. The vicar looked at him across the green baize. “There isn’t any answer,” he said. “Your uncle had us there.” “I dreamed of it once.” The light was fading; maybe he forgot that young Anthony was sitting there over against him in the shadows. “Living for Christ, taking no thought of aught else. What ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink or wherewithal ye shall be clothed. It’s a big thing--Believing.” He seemed to have become aware again of the boy sitting there half hidden by the shadows. “Most of us, Strong’nth’arm,” he said, “think that all we’ve got to do is to sing about it, to repeat it in the proper places. It isn’t enough. Take up thy cross and follow me. That’s where the trouble begins. Easy enough to worship it with folded hands. It is taking it up, carrying it with bowed head and aching shoulders, that’s the bother of it.” He rose, pushing back his chair with a grating sound upon the uncarpeted floor. “You see,” he said, “it isn’t only oneself. One might do it if one were alone. The Roman Church is right on that point. And yet it doesn’t work, even with them. The world gets hold of them. What’s the date?” he said suddenly. “December the fifth,” Anthony told him.