“‘And not by eastern windows only, When daylight comes, comes in the light; In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly! But westward, look, the land is bright!’” “I see,” Taffy nodded. “And--I say, that’s jolly. Who wrote it?” “A man I used to see in the streets of Oxford and always turned to stare after: a man with big ugly shaped feet and the face of a god--a young tormented god. Those were days when young men’s thoughts tormented them. Taffy,” he asked abruptly, “should you like to go to Oxford?” “Don’t, father!” The boy bit his lip to keep back the tears. “Talk of something else--something cheerful. It has been a splendid fight, just splendid! And now it’s over I’m almost sorry.” “What is over?” “Well, I suppose--now that Honoria wants to help--we can hire workmen and have the whole job finished in a month, or two at farthest: and you--” Mr. Raymond stood up, and leaning against a bench-end, examined the thread of the screw between his fingers. “That is one way of looking at it, no doubt,” he said slowly; “and I hope God will forgive me if I have put my own pride before His service. But a man desires to leave some completed work behind him-- something to which people may point and say, ‘_he_ did it.’ There was my book, now: for years I thought that was to be my work. But God thought otherwise and (to correct my pride, perhaps) chose this task instead. To set a small forsaken country church in order and make it worthy of His presence--that is not the mission I should have chosen. But so be it: I have accepted it. Only, to let others step in at the last and finish even this--I say He must forgive me, but I cannot.” “Your book--you can go back to it and finish it.” “I have burnt it.” “Dad!” “I burned it. I had to. It was a temptation to me, and until I lifted it from the grate and the flakes crumbled in my hands the surrender was not complete.” Taffy felt a sudden gush of pity. And as he pitied suddenly he understood his father. “It had to be complete?” “Either the book or the surrender. My boy”--and in his voice there echoed the aspiration and the despair of the true scholar, who abhors imperfection and incompleteness in a world where nothing is either perfect or complete; “it is different with you. I borrowed you, so to say, for the time. Without you I must have failed; but this was never your work. For myself, I have learnt my lessons; but, please God, you shall be my Solomon and be granted a temple to build.” Taffy had lost his shyness now. He laid a hand on his father’s sleeve. “We will go on then.” “Yes, we will go on.” “And Jacky? Where has he been? I haven’t seen him since the Squire died.” Mr. Raymond searched in his coat-pocket and handed over a crumpled letter. It ran:-- “Dear friend,--this is to say that you will not see me no more. The dear Lord tells me that I have made a cauch of it. He don’t say how, all He says is go and do better somewheres else.