Silence fell between them. John Whitelamb broke it. "I can guess what your father's letter will be--a last appeal to you to succeed him in Epworth parish. Do you mean to consent?" "I think not. My reasons--" "Nay, it is certain you will not. And as for your reasons, they do not matter: they may be good, but God has better, who decides for you. Yet deal gently with the old man, for you are denying the dearest wish of his heart." "May I tell him that you will come?" "I will come when he sends for me." Mr. Wesley's message did not arrive until a good fortnight later, during which time John Whitelamb had fallen back upon his own sorrow. He resumed his duties, but with no heart. From the hour of his wife's death he sank gradually into the rut of a listless parish priest--a solitary man, careless of his dress as of his duties, loved by his parishioners for the kindness of his heart. They said that sorrow had broken him; but the case was worse than this. He had lost assurance of God's goodness. He could not, with such a doubt in his heart, go to his wife's family for comfort. He loved them as ever; but he could not trust their love to deal tenderly with his infidelity. No Wesley would ever have let a human sorrow interfere with faith: no Wesley (it seemed to him) would understand such a disaster. It was upon this thought that he had called John a hard man. He recognised the truth and that he was but brittle earthenware beside these hammered vessels of service. Nevertheless, when in obedience to Mr. Wesley's message he presented himself at Epworth, he was surprised by the calm everyday air with which the old man received him. He had expected at least some word of his grief, some fatherly pressure of the hand. There was none. He knew, to be sure, that old age deadened sensibility. But, after all, his dear Molly had been this man's child, if not the best-beloved. "Son Whitelamb, my hand is weary, and there is much to write. Help me to my dearest wish on earth--the only wish now left to me: help me that Jack may inherit Epworth cure when I am gone. Hear what he objects: 'The question is not whether I could do more good there or here in Oxford, _but whether I could do more good to myself_; seeing wherever I can be most holy myself, there I can most promote holiness in others. But I can improve myself more at Oxford than at any other place.' The lad must think I forget my logic. See you, he juggles me with identical propositions! First it is no question of doing good to others, but to himself; and anon when he does most good to himself he will do most good to others. Am I a dead dog, to be pelted with such sophisms? Son Whitelamb, is your pen ready?"