Next day I happened to be sitting with the old Scholar when the new Vicar called. He was received with all the gentle grace and cordiality which our old friend showed to strangers, and we sat for a few minutes talking of the weather and the village. Then the Vicar came to the point of his mission, and I am bound to say that he performed his operation with tenderness and skill, considering how little he could have guessed what pain he was inflicting. “You love the old church, I am sure,” he began. “And I daresay you like it better as it is, and would not care to see it restored. I don’t want to spoil it, but I must at least begin by cleaning it thoroughly: and even that alone will cost a good deal. It is inches deep in dust and mess in places, and up in the tower they eat and drink and smoke and write their names,—and what they do it for I don’t know, but they have made it the common rubbish-heap of the parish. By the way, can you tell me anything of a Dr. and Mrs. Jackson, who seem to have goings on up there,—some eccentric old people are they? or——” At this point he caught sight of my face, which was getting as red as fire. “Dear me,” he said, turning suddenly upon me, and losing his balance as he saw that something was wrong, “I hope they are not—not—” and he stopped in some perplexity. “No, Sir,” said I. “My name is Johnson.” And I broke out into an irresistible peal of laughter, in which even the old Scholar joined me,—but it was the last time I ever saw him laugh. We cleared up the mystery for the discomfited Vicar; and the old Scholar went quietly to his desk and wrote a cheque with a trembling Hand. “I will give you fifty pounds,” he said, “to help to put the old church in good repair, and I will trust you not to ‘restore’ it. We have neglected it too long. Dr. and Mrs. Jackson must take their treasures elsewhere: but I trust that they will long remain your parishioners.” And so they parted, each with a pleasing sense of duty done: but the Vicar had high hopes before him, while our dear old Scholar began to nurse sad misgivings. I cheered him up and bade him goodbye, and meant to tell the Vicar all about him. But one thing and another prevented me, and the next day I left the village. This happened at the end of June, and it was September before I was home again from the Continent. The man who drove me from the station told me that the old Scholar was dying. I went to his gate through the churchyard, and found it neat and well-trimmed: the church was looking brighter and tidier, and the door was open; and the tower seemed to have found a fresh youth, with its stringcourse and effigy repaired, and its abundant crop of ivy lopped away from the lancet windows. But no Doctor or his wife were sitting on the gurgoyles, or taking the air on the battlements. I knocked sadly at the old Scholar’s door, fearing that he had spent his last days in utter friendlessness.