Mr. Stirling suggested that the difficulty might be met. He wished the Wintons not to know that he had a hand in arrangements; and he unfolded his plan. Would Mrs. Brutt be willing to offer on her own account to take Doris, if he privately supplied the funds? No cost to the parents would be involved; and the scheme must be in strict confidence between himself and the widow; on no account to be breathed to any other human being. Mrs. Brutt's face was wreathed in smiles. He might depend upon her— absolutely! She never talked. She never repeated anything. Mr. Stirling had his own opinion as to the "never;" but for her own sake she would be silent here. He asked how soon she would care to go, and dates were discussed. "Then you will speak to the Wintons," were the Squire's parting words. "I may perhaps say a word to prepare them. Better not to name definitely the length of your absence. If Doris is enjoying herself, and you wish to stay a little longer, I shall be willing." CHAPTER XIII "Have I Done Wrong?" IN his beloved old coat, ragged and paint-stained, and his workman's apron, the Rector stood before a half-finished piece of woodcarving, a handsome lectern, destined for a poor East-End parish. Other carved work, just begun or nearly done, lay around him. In one corner a pile of unglazed picture-frames awaited attention. The shed boasted little furniture, as such, but it held a carpenter's bench, a turning-lathe, and a multiplicity of tools. At present he was entirely engrossed by the lectern. He was always happy with chisel and mallet. Handiwork was with him a passion; and though his life-business lay in other lines, he found here his recreation and his joy. Lines that he would not have chosen for himself! Strong pressure through years had been used, to force him thitherward. His mother, a woman of determined will, had made up her mind that he should take holy orders, and had refused to hear reason. The son had slowly yielded, believing that this insistent pressure might in itself constitute a "call." A born mechanic, he might have excelled as an engineer. With the best intentions, the most earnest endeavour, he never would excel as a "Parson." Critics spoke of him often as an unmitigated failure; and they went too far. No man who puts his heart into his work, and does his utmost, even though he has no natural gift for it, can be an unmitigated failure. But a success, from the ordinary point of view, he was not. Though duty was never neglected by him, parish work ranked as a perpetual burden, and the visitation of sick and bereaved folk as a never-ending terror. Few guessed the fact, while condemning his uncouthness. His was a childlike nature, combining genuine enthusiasm with a man's shrewdness; but also it included something of animal dumbness. He could not voice his own emotions, could not say what he thought, could not express what he felt.