Britain might be stiff and stomachered, as the offspring of Elizabeth, but it was stately, it was respectable--as outwardly was the great virgin Queen--and it was easy to live with. Only he counselled his father to do two things: never to preach for more than half-an-hour--even if it meant keeping a small American clock going inside the pulpit-ledge; and to obtain a curate, so that the new enthusiasm might not cool and his father verging on seventy, might not overstrain himself. He pointed out that by letting off most of the glebe land and pretermitting David's "pocket-money" he might secure a young and energetic Welsh-speaking curate, the remainder of whose living-wage would--he felt sure--be found out of the diocesan funds of St. David's bishopric. The Revd. Howel let him have his way (This was after David had returned to Fig Tree Court) and by the following June a stalwart young curate was lodged in the village and took over the bulk of the progressive church work from the fumbling hands of the dear old Vicar. He was a thoroughly good sort, this curate, troubled by no possible doubts whatever, a fervent tee-totaller, a half-back or whole back--I forget which--at football, a good boxer, and an unwearied organizer. Little Bethel was sold and eventually turned into a seed-merchant's repository and drying-room. The curate in course of time married the squire's daughter and I dare say long afterwards succeeded the Revd. Howel Vaughan Williams when the latter died--but that date is still far ahead of my story. At any rate--isn't it _droll_ how these things come about?--David's action in this matter, undertaken he hardly knew why--did much to fetter Mr. Lloyd George's subsequent attempts to disestablish the British Church in Wales.