Human nature, however, is exhaustible. The influence of a strong mind over a strong body is great, but it is nevertheless limited. The _Beacon_ had reached a large circulation, but its slave was worn out. Two years without a holiday--two years of hurried, hard brain-work had left their mark. It is often so when a man finds his avocation too early. He is too hurried, works too hard, and collapses; or he becomes self-satisfied, over-confident, and unbearable. Fortunately for Christian Vellacott he was devoid of conceit, which is like the scaffolding round a church-spire, reaching higher and falling first. There was also a “home” influence at work. When Christian passed out of the narrow doorway, and turned his face westward, his day's work was by no means over, as will be shown hereafter. As Mr. Bodery rolled his pencil up and down his blotting-pad, he was slowly realising the fact that something must be done. Presently he looked up, and his pleasant eyes rested on the bent head of his sub-editor. “Morgan,” he said, “I have been thinking--Seems to me Vellacott wants a rest! He's played out!” Mr. Morgan wiped his pen vigorously upon his coat, just beneath the shoulder, and sat back in his chair. “Yes,” he replied; “he has not been up to the mark for some time. But you will find difficulty in making him take a holiday. He is a devil for working--ha, ha!” This “ha, ha!” did not mean very much. There was no mirth in it. It was a species of punctuation, and implied that Mr. Morgan had finished his remark. “I will ring for him now and see what he says about it.” Mr. Bodery extended his chubby white hand and touched a small gong. Almost instantaneously the silent door opened and a voice from without said, “Yess'r.” A small boy with a mobile, wicked mouth stood at attention in the doorway. “Has Mr. Vellacott gone?” “No--sir!” In a tone which seemed to ask: “Now _is_ it likely?” “Where is he?” “In the shop, sir.” “Ask him to come here, please.” “Yess'r.” The small boy closed the door. Once outside he placed his hand upon his heart and made a low bow to the handle, retreating backwards to the head of the stairs. Then he proceeded to slide down the banister, to the trifling detriment of his waistcoat. As he reached the end of his perilous journey a door opened at the foot of the stairs, and a man's form became discernible in the dim light. “Is that the way you generally come downstairs, Wilson?” asked a voice. “It is the quickest way, sir!” “Not quite; there is one quicker, which you will discover some day if you overbalance at the top!” “Mr. Bodery wishes to see you, please sir!” The small boy's manner was very different from what it had been outside the door upstairs. “All right,” replied Vellacott, putting on the coat he had been carrying over his arm. A peculiar smooth rapidity characterised all his movements. At school he had been considered a very “clean” fielder. The cleanness was there still.