I have given you the characters of my little story, but, for the life of me, I can not tell you which one is to be the hero and which the villain--but, let that go, for I am sure of one thing at least: this story has no villain. But it followed just as naturally as day follows night--for which figure of speech, my thanks to Mr. Shakespeare--that when Father Ilwin failed to do well, he grew gloomy and sad; and just as naturally--God help us--there was enough of human nature in Father Tom to say, "I told you so" to himself, and to have him pity Father Ilwin to others in that superior sort of way that cuts and stings more than a whip of scorpions. Then, when Father Tom spoke to some of his people of Father Ilwin's poor success and said, "He meant well, good lad," they all praised the soft, kind heart of Father Tom; but when Father Ilwin heard of this great kindness he just shut his lips tightly, and all the blood was chased from his set face to grip his heart in a spell of resentment. Why? Oh, human nature, you know! and human nature explains a lot of things which even story-writers have to give up. Of course, people _did_ say that Father Ilwin was ungracious and unappreciative; yet, as I write, much as I like Father Tom, I have a tear in my eye for the lonely man who knew well that the only obstacle to his success was the _one_ that people never _could_ see, and that the _obstacle himself_ was never _likely_ to see. But let us go on. Of all the things in this world that Father Tom believed in, it was that his "parish rights" were first and foremost. So he never touched foot in his neighbor's parish, except to pay him a friendly visit, or to go to his righteous confession. He visited no homes out of his territory, though he had baptized pretty nearly every little curly-headed fairy in each. They were his no longer and that was enough. He wanted no visitor in his limits either, except on the same terms. So no one in Father Tom's parish had helped much in building the church across the river. The people understood.