“Well, sir, he said it was never too late to be a Christian. And he gave me a prayer book--he’s a very nice gentleman--and told me to take it home and read it.” “Yes?” “I’ve tried to read it, sir, but to be quite honest, I don’t feel that I shall ever be much of a Christian.” “Well, Hickman--” suddenly Mr. Perry-Hennington found his voice--“always try to remember this: Jesus Christ came to us here in order that you might be with your dear wife and your dear boy in Heaven, and--and--we have His pledged Word--and we must believe in that.” “But how is a chap to believe what he can’t prove?” “We must have faith--we must all have faith.” “All very well, sir,” said Hickman dourly, “but suppose He has promised more than He can perform?” “In what way? How do you mean?” “According to the Bible He was to come again, but as far as I can make out there doesn’t seem much sign of Him yet.” Mr. Perry-Hennington was silent a moment and then he took one of the landlord’s large hands in both of his own and said in an abrupt, half grotesque, wholly illogical way, “My dear friend, we are all members one of another. It is our duty to hope for the best--our duty to believe that the best will happen.” And as he turned aside, he added with another curious change of voice, which he could not have recognized as belonging to himself, “You see, we are all in the same boat.” Saying these words, the vicar climbed into his trap with almost the stagger of a drunken man. He hardly knew what he said or what he did, but as soon as the mare was out of the inn yard it came upon him that he had to go to Wellwood, and that the way to get there was through Easing and Chettleford. Why at that particular moment that particular place should be his destination he didn’t quite know, unless it was in obedience to a voice he had heard in the sky. A modern man, whose supreme desire was to take reason for his guide in all things, even if the vows of his faith forced him to accept the supernatural in form and sum, he feared in this hour to apply it too rigidly. As the publican’s mare went steadily forward along the winding, humid lanes of a woodland country, a feeling of hopelessness came upon him. What did he expect to do when he got to the end of his journey? Such a question simply admitted of no answer. It was not to be faced by Thomas Perry-Hennington on his present plane of being. The logic of the matter could not be met.