“One moment, sir, and I shall have done. I intend to get it printed. It shall be ‘Coombe’s Dictionary of Bible Words,’ and will become a handbook in every library of God-fearing and Scripture-loving men and women. As for any profits from the sale, of that I care not—that’s no odds to me. It is the good it will do that I think of.” “But, my dear Mr. Coombe——” The rector rose and went to his shelf. “_The thing has already been done._ Here it is: ‘Cruden’s Concordance to the Holy Scriptures.’ It was published in 1761, and has gone through innumerable editions since.” The old man stood as though turned to stone. “The thing already done!” he gasped. The rector had no heart to say more. He bitterly regretted that he had blurted out the truth so abruptly. “The thing already done! Thirty-five years spent for naught.” Then he did up his packet again. But the tears dropped on it. This was to him a blow more crushing than he could bear. He hoisted his parcel on his back, touched his forehead, but held the parson’s hand and wrung it, as speechlessly he left the house. His heart was too full for mere words. The old man broke down rapidly after that. The object of his life was gone. The great ambition of his days was extinguished. One day when he was being visited by the rector, as he lay on his death-bed, he said— “Sir, I ha’ been thinking and worriting over my work o’ thirty-five years, and axing of myself whether it were all labour lost and time thrown away. It have fretted me terrible. But I seems to see now as it was not lost—not to me anyhow, for I got the Scriptur’ that into me that it became to me like the blood in my veins and the marrow in my bones—and it is my stand-by now.” TIMOTHY SLOUCH TIMOTHY SLOUCH “Mother,” said John French, “you say that everybody has his place in the world, and his mission. I’d precious like to know what is Tim Slouch’s place and what his mission. It seems to me there never was such a chap for tumbling out of his place when he has got one, and bless’d if I know what good he can or does do, put him where you will.” John French was a fine young fellow, the only son of a small farmer lately deceased, unmarried, who carried on the farm and was the pride of his mother. Very much about the same time the Squire, who was riding round his estate to see how the planting was going on, what cottagers wanted repairs done to their roofs, torn by a late gale, what farmers needed additional sheds—for he was a man to see to these things himself—encountered the parson, who had been parishing. He drew rein. “How d’ye do, rector? I say, I say. There is that Timothy Slouch out of work again. Upon my soul, I don’t know how the man could get on, were it not for Sela; and what the woman was thinking of when she took such a fellow—that beats my comprehension. They say that to every man there is a hole in the world into which he may be pegged, but that hole has not yet been found by Slouch.”