"When I was a young man I did many things of which I have since had good reason to be ashamed. Among the things, I used to write what Mr. Ingledew would say correctly enough it would be flattering to call nonsense. I regret to have to tell you that I wrote those verses to which Mr. Ingledew has just called our attention in that dead and gone Camford magazine." The curate stood up almost straight. "Sir!--Mr. Harding!" "I did. To my shame, I own it. I had nearly forgotten them. I had not seen a copy for years and years. I had hoped that there was none in existence. But it seems that that which a man does, which he would rather have left undone, is sure to rise, and confront him, we will trust, by the grace of God, not in eternity, but certainly in time." Mr. Plumber was trembling. The vicar continued, in a voice, and with a manner, the exquisite delicacy of which was indescribable. "I have esteemed it my duty to make you this confession in order that you may understand that I, too, have done that of which I have cause to be ashamed. And in making you this confession I must ask you to respect my confidence, as I shall respect yours." Mr. Plumber made a movement as if to speak. But, possibly his tongue was parched and refused its office. At any rate, he did nothing but stare at the vicar, with blanched cheeks, and strangely distended eyes. When Mr. Harding went on, his glance, which had hitherto been fixed upon the curate, fell--it may be that he wished to avoid the other's dreadful gaze. "I think, Mr. Plumber, you might prefer to leave Exdale and seek another sphere of duty. As it chances, I have had a recent inquiry from a friend who desires to know if I am acquainted with a gentleman who would care to accept a chaplaincy at a health resort in the Pyrenees. One moment." The curate made another movement as if to speak; the vicar checked him. "The stipend is guaranteed to be at least £200 a year; and, as there are also tutorial possibilities, on such an income, in that part of the world, a gentleman would be able to bring up his family in decent comfort. If you like, I will mention your name, and, in that case, I think I am in a position to promise that the post shall be place at your disposal." The curate's hat and stick dropped from his trembling hands. He seemed unconscious of their fate. He moved, or rather, it would be more correct to say, he lurched towards the vicar's table. "Sir!" he gasped. "Mr. Harding." It seemed that he would say more--much more; but that still his tongue was tied. His weight was on the table, as if, without the aid of its support, he would not be able to stand. Rising, leaning forward, the vicar gently laid his two hands upon the curate's. His voice quavered as he spoke. "Believe me, Mr. Plumber, we clergymen are no more immaculate than other men." The curate still was speechless. But he sank on his knees, and laying his face on the vicar's writing table, he cried like a child.