“There will be no peace in this land till the high places are cast down and the images utterly destroyed,” said Waghorn. “How can there be peace while corner-creepers still entice our countrymen to Rome? Yea, the wrath of the Almighty will abide on us until we have brought Canterbury to a just and righteous doom.” “Come, Waghorn,” said the physician, laying his hand on the fanatic’s shoulder, “I also am a Puritan, but we shall serve the good cause but ill if fierce zeal overpowers Christian love and forgiveness.” For a minute a gentler expression dawned in the stern face. Waghorn turned to go. Nevertheless, he shook his head dubiously over Dr. Harford’s words. “I’ll not deny that you’re a Christian, sir,” he muttered; “but you’re half-hearted, one that calls evil good and good evil, a moderate, betwixt-and-between believer, and Scripture tells us the fate of the lukewarm. As for me and my house we will destroy and utterly root out the accursed thing. And to you, sir,” turning severely to the Vicar, “with your offers of peace and friendliness, I say in the words of the prophet of old, there is no peace to the wicked. Therefore, prepare yourself for trouble.” With that he stalked out of the house, and the Vicar returned to the hearth meditating sadly over what had passed. Yet there was, in spite of his sadness, a humorous twinkle in his eye as he glanced at the physician. “Waghorn doesn’t mince matters, does he? There is a directness in his attack which, like his stone-throwing, shows great vigour.” “How dare he call you wicked, Uncle!” said Hilary, angrily. “My dear, we acknowledge ourselves miserable offenders day by day with perfect truth,” said the Vicar. “But I confess he seemed to think more of my trespasses than of his own--a snare of the evil one too apt to entrap all of us. I think, sir, if you will excuse me, I will go across and see what the extent of the damage is.” Dr. Harford begged to accompany him, and crossing the garden and the churchyard, they entered the beautiful old church, followed by the two girls. At that time the east wall was pierced by three Early English windows. The side lights being filled with what Waghorn called “good honest white glass” remained intact, but the central light with its matchless stained glass and rich jewel-like colouring was shivered into a hundred pieces, while the icy wind blew drearily into the building. The Vicar’s eyes grew dim, the loveliness of the old twelfth century church had been one of the joys of his life, but he spoke not a word, only stooped down quietly and began carefully to gather up the broken fragments from the chancel floor. “You will cut yourself, sir,” said Hilary, gently. “And of what use are these broken bits?” “Nay, I’ll gather them up,” he said, sturdily, “and in happier times, maybe, someone will piece them together; the picture is lost, but the colours are fadeless.”