Then he turned to his writing again. Mr. Whitaker said, ‘Ah, that is all right, then,’ and immediately took a ticket and began to write. Myles felt as if everything was reeling around him, and himself with the rest. He caught at the top of a chair by the table and steadied himself, feeling as if he were some one else, some strange, alien, degraded being--one of the beggars of whom he used to read in advanced periodicals, that they ought not to be relieved by private, miscellaneous almsgiving; but should all be ticketed and classified, and strictly watched and overlooked. It was as the bitterness of death, and must be borne unmoved, standing composedly and decently. All the time he still supported himself by the back of the chair, unable, from very weakness and dizziness, to move. The gentleman who sat in it rose, and looked at him from a pair of keen, stern, steel-gray eyes. ‘You look ill, young man,’ said he. ‘Come with me, and I will show you where to get the money.’ He took the ticket in his hand, and, taking Myles’s arm, led him away through a side-door, into a small sort of anteroom. Here he bade Myles sit down, and he took from a cupboard some wine--red wine, which he poured into a glass and gave to Myles with a piece of bread. ‘Take that,’ said he, ‘and drink the wine, or you will be ill before you get home. You have fasted long. You should have come sooner. How long is it since you had any food?’ ‘About thirty-six hours, I think,’ said Myles, looking at him as he took the glass in his hand. It was Canon Ponsonby, ‘the radical parson,’ the man who ought to have been a prime minister, but who, as Rector of Thanshope, earned more love than falls to the lot of most prime ministers, charm they never so wisely. His stern face softened as he looked upon the figure before him. ‘You have a right spirit,’ said he. ‘I know your name, and who you are. Your sister attends the parish church. You----’ ‘Attend no church at all. I’m a free thinker.’ ‘Are you? I don’t think you will ever solve your riddle by free-thinking. But shake hands. I wish you were one of my flock.’ ‘If anything could make me one of a flock, it would be that you are the shepherd, sir,’ said Myles, finishing his bread and wine, and feeling a warmed life in his veins and at his heart. ‘See!’ said Canon Ponsonby, ‘here is the weekly allowance to which your ticket entitles you. Do not trouble to call at the office. Good morning.’ He took the young man’s hand. ‘I have long known of you. I am glad to have seen you. God have you in His keeping!’