But even as he stood thus, the white splendour faded from his countenance, leaving it shadowed with care. In one corner of the room, against the wall, shielding his face from the light of the window with his big black hat and the palm of his hand, sat the school-master. He was violently flushed, his eyes swollen and cloudy, his hair tossed, his linen rumpled, his posture bespeaking wretchedness and self-abandonment. Always in preaching the parson had looked for the face of his friend; always it had been his mainstay, interpreter, steadfast advocate in every plea for perfection of life. But to-day it had been kept concealed from him; nor until he had reached his closing exhortation, had the school-master once looked him in the eye, and he had done so then in a most remarkable manner: snatching the hat from before his face, straightening his big body up, and transfixing him with an expression of such resentment and reproach, that among all the wild faces before him, he could see none to match this one for disordered and evil passion. If he could have harboured a conviction so monstrous, he would have said that his words had pierced the owner of that face like a spear and that he was writhing under the torture. As soon as he had pronounced the benediction he looked toward the corner again, but the school-master had already left the room. Usually he waited until the others were gone and the two men walked homeward together, discussing the sermon. To-day the others slowly scattered, and the parson sat alone at the tipper end of the room disappointed and troubled. John strode up to the door. "Are you ready?" he asked in a curt unnatural voice. "Ah!" The parson sprang up gladly. "I was hoping you'd come!" They started slowly off along the path, John walking unconsciously in it, the parson stumbling along through the grass and weeds on one side. It had been John's unvarying wont to yield the path to him. "It is easy to preach," he muttered with gloomy, sarcastic emphasis. "If you tried it once, you might think it easier to practise," retorted the parson, laughing. "It might be easier to one who is not tempted." "It might be easier to one who is. No man is tempted beyond his strength, but a sermon is often beyond his powers. I let you know, young man, that a homily may come harder than a virtue." "How can you stand up and preach as you've been preaching, and then come out of the church and laugh about it!" cried John angrily. "I'm not laughing about what I preached on," replied the parson with gentleness. "You are in high spirits! You are gay! You are full of levity!" "I am full of gladness. I am happy: is that a sin?" John wheeled on him, stopping short, and pointing back to the church: