The old life at Kestercham seemed to revive the next morning. Once more Mr. Eversley in the morning sat in his study with Gerald at his side, though I think he found it necessary, more often than of old, to interrupt his work for the sake of putting questions which, if the truth must be told, were somewhat alien from the sermon upon which he was engaged. Once more when he visited his parishioners in the afternoon Gerald trudged at his side, and there was not a farmer or labourer whom they passed but wished the boy well, some remarking in their rough honest way that he ‘fared hearty,’ others that he ‘had grown wonderful,’ and others again that they were ‘right glad to see him back with all his larnin’ in little Kest.’ The people of Kestercham did not ‘hold with’ education, at least in Kestercham; they did not feel that the village of Kestercham stood in need of it; but they supposed that for the unfortunate outer world, whose affairs were in general not so well ordered, it was desirable, and perhaps even necessary. Once more, too, when Sunday came, Gerald accompanied his father to church, took his old seat in the vicarage pew in the chancel, immediately behind the labourers and schoolchildren who formed the choir, and Mr. Eversley listened with grateful satisfaction to his young voice joining fervently, as of old, in the responses and hymns. There was much to think of, much to talk of, it will be believed, in the long winter evenings of the first holidays. But the days and nights passed only too quickly, and still the father and the son found ever new topics of conversation. For conversation is not the conveying or receiving of knowledge, but the interchange of sympathetic feelings.