But it was, rather, some earlier letters from the same hand--letters more familiar, intimate, and discursive--that ultimately held the Rector's thoughts as he kept his watch. For in those letters were contained almost all the objections that a sensitive mind and heart had had to grapple with before determining on the course to which the Rector of Upcote was now committed. They were the voice of the "adversary," the "accuser." Crude or conventional, as the form of the argument might be, it yet represented the "powers and principalities" to be reckoned with. If the Rector's conscience could not sustain him against it, he was henceforth a dishonest and unhappy man; and when his lawyers had failed to protect him against its practical result--as they must no doubt fail--he would be a dispossessed priest: "What discipline in life or what comfort in death can such a faith as yours bring to any human soul? Do, I beg of you, ask yourself this question. If the great miracles of the Creed are not true, what have you to give the wretched and the sinful? Ought you not in common human charity to make way for one who can offer the consolations, utter the warnings, or hold out the heavenly hopes from which you are debarred?" * * * * * The Rector fixed his gaze upon the sick man. It was as though the question of the letter were put to him through those parched lips. And as he looked, Bateson opened his eyes. "Be that you, Rector?" he said, in a clear voice. "I've been sitting up with you, Bateson. Can you take a little brandy and milk, do you think?" The patient submitted, and the Rector, with a tender and skilful touch, made him comfortable on his pillows and smoothed the bedclothes. "Where's my wife?" he said presently, looking round the room. "She's sleeping downstairs." "I want her to come up." "Better not ask her. She seems ill and tired." The sick man smiled--a slight and scornful smile. "She'll ha' time enough presently to be tired. You goa an' ask her." "I'd rather not leave you, Bateson. You're very ill." "Then take that stick then, an' rap on the floor. She'll hear tha fast enough." The Rector hesitated, but only for a moment. He took the stick and rapped. Almost immediately the sound of a turning key was heard through the small thinly built cottage. The door below opened and footsteps came up the stairs. But before they reached the landing the sound ceased. The two men listened in vain. "You goa an' tell her as I'm sorry I knocked her aboot," said Bateson, eagerly. "An' she can see for hersen as I can't aggravate her no more wi' the other woman." He raised himself on his elbow, staring into the Rector's face. "I'm done for--tell her that." "Shall I tell her also, that you love her?--and you want her love?" "Aye," said Bateson, nodding, with the same bright stare into Meynell's eyes. "Aye!"