Robert laughed and kissed her, but her question had stirred him so much that he sat down that very evening to write to his cousin Mowbray Elsmere. He announced to him that he was about to read for Orders, and that at the same time he relinquished all claim on the living of Murewell. ‘Do what you like with it when it falls vacant,’ he wrote, ‘without reference to me. My views are strong that before a clergyman in health and strength, and in no immediate want of money, allows himself the luxury of a country parish, he is bound, for some years at any rate, to meet the challenge of evil and poverty where the fight is hardest-among our English town population.’ Sir Mowbray Elsmere replied curtly in a day or two, to the effect that Robert’s letter seemed to him superfluous. He, Sir. Mowbray, had nothing to do with his cousin’s views. When the living was vacant--the present holder, however, was uncommon tough and did not mean dying--he should follow out the instructions of his father’s will, and if Robert did not want the thing he could say so. In the autumn Robert and his mother went back to Oxford. The following spring he redeemed his Oxford reputation completely by winning a Fellowship at Merton after a brilliant fight with some of the beat men of his year, and in June he was ordained. In the summer term some teaching work was offered him at Merton, and by Mr. Grey’s advice he accepted it, thus postponing for a while that London curacy and that stout grapple with human need at its sorest for which his soul was pining. ‘Stay here a year or two,’ Grey said, bluntly; ‘you are at the beginning of your best learning time, and you are not one of the natures who can do without books. You will be all the better worth having afterward, and there is no lack of work here for a man’s moral energies.’ Langham took the same line, and Elsmere submitted. Three happy and fruitful years followed. The young lecturer developed an amazing power of work. That concentration which he had been unable to achieve for himself his will was strong enough to maintain when it was a question of meeting the demands of a college class in which he was deeply interested. He became a stimulating and successful teacher, and one of the most popular of men. His passionate sense of responsibility toward his pupils made him load himself with burdens to which he was constantly physically unequal, and fill the vacations almost as full as the terms. And as he was comparatively a man of means, his generous, impetuous temper was able to gratify itself in ways that would have been impossible to others. The story of his summer reading parties, for instances, if one could have unravelled it, would have been found to be one long string of acts of kindness toward men poorer and duller than himself.