all concerned. What was he going to do with himself now he had come home? Did he think he could be kept in idleness at his time of life? Such were the galling questions that had been put to John all day long. He had made little answer, and his mother believed he was as much in the dark as she was herself. And naturally, though she could not have taunted her boy as her husband did, still the question was to her, as to him, a very serious one. He could not live at home doing nothing. He had thrown away one hope for the future, and now another; and what was he to do? “A thing may be very imperfect, very unsatisfactory, not much good that one can see; and yet it may be the best thing in the world.” This was what John said, breaking the stillness after a long interval; and he paused in his walk and stood still in the shaded part of the room, behind his mother’s chair. “I don’t know what you mean, my dear,” said Mrs Mitford. “How can a thing be unsatisfactory and yet the best thing in the world? And oh, my own boy, what has that to do with you and me?” “It has a great deal to do with you and me,” he said, behind her chair. “I could not answer my father’s questions. It was hard enough to listen to them and keep my patience; but, mother, dear, I can’t shut my heart to you. I am not going to live upon you in idleness. I am going back to the work you have trained me for all my life.” “John!” said his mother, with a bewildered cry of joy. She held out her arms to him, and he came and knelt down by her, and they held each other close. “Oh my boy, my boy, my son!” she murmured over him, as she had murmured over his cradle. She could find no other words; but as for John, his decision was no joy to him. He had nothing to say to add to the importance of the moment. Thus it must be, and there was a sense of repose in his mind now that he had decided. It was not so great a work, perhaps, as she thought; but still it was the best in the world; and whether hopefully or sadly, what did it matter? a man could do his duty in it. There was no more to be said. “But oh, John,” said Mrs Mitford, raising her head at last with tears of mingled joy and pain in her eyes, “that will make but little difference now, so far as this world is concerned. It will not make your poor papa less angry, as it would have done three months ago. Mr Fanshawe has promised the living to his nephew. It is a family living, you know; and it was only because they were so fond of us--I mean of your papa--that you were to have it; and I was so happy always to think you would take up our work. My dear boy! if you are thinking of Fanshawe, that is all over now.” “So much the better, mother,” said John; “I was not thinking of Fanshawe. I will take a curacy in a town where there is plenty of work to do, and fight the devil if I can. People say there is no devil; but I think I know better. We can fight him still, please God!”