There were indeed seasons when, unexpectedly, he would break through these restraining bonds, when some sudden emergency would call forth his real strength of character. Then dumbness ceased, and he could take the lead, and take it well. But such occasions were few and far between. Usually, he only asked to be left in the background which he loved. He was a square man in a round hole; and, do what he might, he never could fill the empty space. In the nature of things, this was impossible. A touch of the pathetic in such a sight, is there not? But has it ever occurred to you, how much grander a thing it is for a square man to be striving his heroic best to fill a round hole—even though the result be failure!—than for a round man to slip easily and without effort into a round hole which just fits him? The one means exertion, struggle, self-denial. The other means—nothing! Do you question this? Think of a boat on a powerful river. From which does the looker-on gain most—from a man fighting bravely against the stream, whether he succeeds or fails, or from a man swept easily down by the force of the current? Mr. Winton's daily battle formed an object-lesson to more than one silent observer. When Doris came to the shed, and found her father in pleased contemplation of his handiwork, she had come to the right place. She was in a cloudy mood this morning, and things looked awry. And she felt that, though the dear old daddy—she called him "daddy" still, when they were alone—might say little, he would understand. Twice he glanced up from the work which he had resumed, with a scrutinising glance. "Eh, child?" came at length. "What is it?" "Oh, nothing. I'm only tired of things, daddy. I should like to get away." "Where?" "Anywhere. I don't mind. Don't you sometimes feel so?" "I've had the sensation." "And only yesterday I thought I wouldn't. I saw poor Winnie Morris, and she made me ashamed of not being contented. But this morning— somehow—" Her father's broad hand, with its delicate capabilities, just touched hers. "I know—" it said. "What do you do when you get a fit like that, daddy?" "Knock it down," the Rector said grimly. "And if it knocks you down?" "Get up and fight it." She laughed a little. "I suppose one never ought to wish for anything one hasn't got." "I don't say that. There is a right as well as a wrong way of wishing. And there is a Divine discontent, as well as a discontent which isn't Divine." "And the Divine discontent—?" she questioned. "Do you remember Mrs. Gatty's Parables? I suppose it is the sort that makes the grub climb out of the pond, to become the winged creature." "I'm afraid mine is the discontent that isn't Divine," she said slowly. "I want things changed —different—and—Winnie said things were right because God had arranged them for us. I don't think I feel like that in the least." The Rector looked up in her face. The one person with whom he was not tongue-tied was this daughter?