Piers nodded. He dropped the poker with a careless clatter and stretched his arms high above his head. "You once said something to me about the Hand of the Sculptor," he said. "Well, if He wants to do any shaping so far as I am concerned, now is His time. I am willing to be shaped." "What do you mean?" asked Crowther. Piers' eyes were half-closed, and there was a drawn look about the lids as of a man in pain. "I mean, my good Crowther," he said, "that the mire and clay have ceased to attract me. My house is empty--swept and garnished,--but it is not open to devils at present. You want to know my plans. I haven't any. I am waiting to be taken in hand." He spoke with a faint smile that moved Crowther to deep compassion. "You will have to be patient a long while, maybe, sonny," he said. "I can be patient," said Piers. He shifted his position slightly, clasping his hands behind his head, so that his face was in shadow. "You think that is not much like me, Crowther," he said. "But I can wait for a thing if I feel I shall get it in the end. I have felt that--ever since the night after I went down there. She was so desperately ill. She wanted me--just to hold her in my arms." His voice quivered suddenly. He stopped for a few seconds, then went on in a lower tone. "She wasn't--quite herself at the time--or she would never have asked for me. But it made a difference to me all the same. It made me see that possibly--just possibly--there is a reason for things,--that even misery and iron may have their uses--that there may be something behind it all--what?--Something Divine." He stopped altogether, and pushed his chair further still into shadow. Crowther was smoking. He did not speak for several seconds, but smoked on with eyes fixed straight before him as though they scanned a far-distant horizon. At length: "I rather think the shaping has begun, sonny," he said. "You don't believe in prayer now?" "No, I don't," said Piers. Crowther's eyes came down to him. "Can't you pray without believing?" he said slowly. Piers made a restless movement. "What should I pray for?" Crowther was smiling slightly--the smile of a man who has begun to see, albeit afar off, the fulfilment of a beloved project. "Do you know, old chap," he said, "I expect I seem a fool to you; but it's the fools who confound the wise, isn't it? I believe a thundering lot in prayer. But I didn't always. I prayed without believing for a long time first." "That seems to me like offering an insult to God," said Piers. "I don't think He views it in that light," said Crowther, "any more than He blames a blind man for feeling his way. The great thing is to do it--to get started. You're wanting a big thing in life. Well,--ask for it! Don't be afraid of asking! It's what you're meant to do." He drew a long whiff from his pipe and puffed it slowly forth. There fell a deep silence between them. Piers sat in absolute stillness, gazing downwards into the fire with eyes still half-closed.