The curate and his pupil trudged along in the dark, guided by the lantern which threw a gleam along the road and showed them the irregularities in it, which indeed they both knew very well, avoiding by instinct the bit of broken causeway before the schoolhouse, and the heap of crates and packages that were always to be found in front of the shop. The darkness of the village was not like the modified darkness to which dwellers in towns are accustomed. It was a blackness which could be felt; without any relief. But then both of these people knew every step of the way. The drawback of the darkness, however, was that one could not see who might be listening, and had, therefore, no guidance to tone one’s voice or change the subject when there were people passing by, to whom one did not care to confess all one’s thoughts. This, however, very little affected John and the curate, who knew everybody, and had nothing in the world to conceal. ‘I’m very glad, John,’ said the curate, as they trudged along, speaking a little louder than usual because of the night; for it was so heavy and depressing that it seemed to require more cheer than usual in the human voices, ‘very glad that your grandfather and grandmother take it so well. It’s a very fine profession, the best you can have.’ ‘Yes, that is just what I think,’ said John, ‘it’s not a mere trade to make one’s living by. It means more than that.’ ‘Yes, a great deal; but, all the same, a sure trade to make one’s living by is something. You must not be contemptuous----’ ‘I, sir!’ said John. ‘I hope I’m not contemptuous of anything; but if you can make your living and do something for your fellow-creatures at the same time--like yourself,’ the boy said, lowering his voice, ‘though not in such a fine way----’ ‘Ah, my boy,’ said the curate, in a tone which implied that he was shaking his head ‘when you’re older even you, perhaps, won’t think so much of my way of serving my fellow-creatures. It is not very much one can do. If I were in the East-End of London, perhaps, or on a mission--but never mind about that. You must remember that building lighthouses is the heroic part, but learning to survey and to calculate, or having to work at machinery, as you would do if you went to my brother----’ ‘I’d like the one for the sake of the other,’ said John. ‘But you might never, perhaps, get to the other. You may have to grind for years at the mechanical part. You must not form too high expectations. We all have our dreams of lighthouses--and then, perhaps, never get any further than to make a bit of railway or to look after the fall of the water in a lock.’ ‘You always say,’ cried the boy, ‘that a firm resolution is half the battle.’