“I thought at one time,” he said, “that it might have been a closer relationship than that of mere partners. But she’s a strange girl. I don’t expect she ever will marry. I fancy I frightened her off it.” He laughed. “She knew that I loved her mother with as great a love as any woman could hope for. But it didn’t save me from making her life one of sorrow. “Do you know what’s wrong with the Apostles Creed?” he said. “They’ve left out the devil. Don’t you make the mistake, my lad, of not believing in him. He doesn’t want us to believe in him. He wants us to believe that he is dead, that he never lived, that he’s just an old wives’ tale. We talk about the still small voice of God. Yes, if we listen very hard and if it’s all quiet about us, we can hear it. What about the insistent tireless voice of the other one who whispers to us day and night, sits beside us at table, creeps with us into bed? David made a mistake; he should have said, ‘The fear of the devil is the beginning of wisdom.’ It began in the Garden of Eden. If the Lord only hadn’t forgot the serpent! It has been the trouble of all the reformers. They might have accomplished something: if they hadn’t forgotten the devil. It’s the trouble of every youngster, thinking he sees his life before him; they all forget the devil.” Anthony laughed. “What line of tactics do you suggest for overcoming him?” he asked. “Haven’t myself had sufficient success to justify my giving advice,” answered Mr. Mowbray. “All I can warn you is that he takes many shapes. Sometimes he dresses himself up as a dear old lady and calls himself Mother Nature. Sometimes he wears a shiny hat and claims to be nothing more than a plain man of business. Sometimes he comes clothed in glory and calls himself Love.” The old gentleman reached for his hat. “Didn’t expect to find me among the prophets, did you?” he added with a smile. He was growing feeble, and Anthony walked back with him to The Priory. They passed St. Aldys churchyard on their way. “I’ll just look in,” said Mr. Mowbray, “and say good-bye. I always like to before I go away.” Mr. Mowbray had bought many years ago the last three vacant graves in the churchyard. His wife lay in the centre one and Edward to the right of her. They stood there for a while in silence. “I suppose it’s only my fancy,” said Mr. Mowbray, “but you seem to me to grow more like Ted every year. I don’t mean in appearance, though even there I often see a look in your eyes that reminds me of him. But in other ways. Sometimes I could almost think it was he speaking.”