The builder groaned, and the Doctor buried his face in his hands. He would rather have given all that he had, and ten years of his life into the bargain, than have listened to such a confession from the brother whom he had loved and honoured. He knew that all this was common enough in those days, but Dr. Stapleton held it a crime, nevertheless, and that his brother should have committed it nearly broke his heart. “Did they pass a vote of censure upon you at the mission hall?” he asked, presently. “Oh, no! I have not heard that they blamed me; and I have the usual excuses about dry rot and all that to offer.” “But—you know!” “Yes, alas! I know.” “Felix, there is one thing, at least, that you can do. Rebuild this little mission chapel as it ought to be done. I will pay for it, and the prayers of the grateful people may help you.” “Yes. I have thought of that myself. Thank you, Fred. I can do that, and I will, without your help. It will be like an acknowledgment of my fault; but that I must not mind, it is only justice. O God, I wish I could be just! That is what I have not been. I cannot think how I could have done some of the things which I have done. I think my conscience has been asleep, and is awake now with a vengeance. But competition is ruining many beside me. The little men do some of the mischief. They work themselves for workmen’s wages, and get a few to help them who are unskilled, and therefore take less; and I suppose they get some profit, for they go on for a few years, and then, having cheapened things for every one else and having nothing to lose themselves, they fail—while the men of capital have to suffer for their folly and ambition.” “Yes; perhaps some trades are being ruined in this way. But if any people are able to prevent it, the big men, as you call them, are; for they might make a stand, and insist on having none but good work done, or giving up business altogether. And, of course, capital ought not to monopolise the trades. Other men, as well as you, have tried and hoped for success.”