He left the place by a side entrance, and rode slowly down the private road, fringed by a magnificent row of elm trees, to the village. The latch of the iron gate at the end of the avenue was stiff, and he failed to open it with his hunting crop at the first attempt. Just as he was preparing to try again, a tall, boyish-looking young man, dressed in sombre black, came swiftly across the road and opened the gate. Mr. Hurd thanked him curtly, and the young man raised his hat. "You are Mr. Hurd, I believe?" he remarked. "I was going to call upon you this afternoon." The little man upon the pony frowned. He had no doubt as to his questioner. "My name is Hurd, sir," he answered stiffly. "What can I do for you?" "You can let me have that barn for my services," the other answered smiling. "I wrote you about it, you know. My name is Macheson." Mr. Hurd's answer was briefly spoken, and did not invite argument. "I have mentioned the matter to Miss Thorpe-Hatton, sir. She agrees with me that your proposed ministrations are altogether unneeded in this neighbourhood." "You won't let me use the barn, then?" the young man remarked pleasantly, but with some air of disappointment. Mr. Hurd gathered up the reins in his hand. "Certainly not, sir!" He would have moved on, but his questioner stood in the way. Mr. Hurd looked at him from underneath his shaggy eyebrows. The young man was remarkably young. His smooth, beardless face was the face of a boy. Only the eyes seemed somehow to speak of graver things. They were very bright indeed, and they did not falter. "Mr. Hurd," he begged, "do let me ask you one question! Why do you refuse me? What harm can I possibly do by talking to your villagers?" Mr. Hurd pointed with his whip up and down the country lane. "This is the village of Thorpe, sir," he answered. "There are no poor, there is no public-house, and there, within a few hundred yards of the farthest cottage," he added, pointing to the end of the street, "is the church. You are not needed here. That is the plain truth." The young man looked up and down, at the flower-embosomed cottages, with their thatched roofs and trim appearance, at the neatly cut hedges, the well-kept road, the many signs of prosperity. He looked at the little grey church standing in its ancient walled churchyard, where the road divided, a very delightful addition to the picturesque beauty of the place. He looked at all these things and he sighed. "Mr. Hurd," he said, "you are a man of experience. You know very well that material and spiritual welfare are sometimes things very far apart." Mr. Hurd frowned and turned his pony's head towards home. "I know nothing of the sort, sir," he snapped. "What I do know is that we don't want any Salvation Army tricks here. You should stay in the cities. They like that sort of thing there." "I must come where I am sent, Mr. Hurd," the young man answered. "I cannot do your people any harm. I only want to deliver my message--and go."