"What is that rock, sir?" "A conviction that this life is only a part, a small part of a tremendous whole which our finite minds are unable to grasp. That conviction comes from experience. It is independent of what is called revealed religion, although it has been revealed by all religions, inasmuch as it must come from within to be of any real value and comfort. It must be worked for, as I say, and paid for. The reward, when that rock is reached, is very great." "What is it, sir?" "The peace that passes understanding. And now, Fancy, in the trial that awaits you, trust in that first faith of which I spoke, the faith that I am sure is yours. God knows what is best for us. We all try to make Him walk in our ways, instead of walking humbly in His." She said shyly: "Thank you, sir; you have made things easier for me." It was late when Hamlin left the Yellam cottage and bitterly cold. He walked to Pomfret Court, and found the Squire in his room. In that room hard words had passed between Squire and Parson. To-day they were friends, working together. And the marriage of their children did not adequately account for this. It was one of the unexpected results of the war. "Dinner in five-and-twenty minutes," said Sir Geoffrey. "I'm delighted to see you, my dear fellow." "I wish I could stop. I need your help." The Squire rang the bell. When the butler came, dinner was postponed a quarter of an hour. Another straw to indicate a change in domestic currents. Before the war, dinner at Pomfret Court had been regarded as a sacred function, never postponed merely because the Parson wanted a word with the Squire. "I want you to pull more strings," said Hamlin, after telling his story at some length. "You know swells at the Foreign Office. It must be possible to find out through some kind neutral at The Hague whether a prisoner of the name of Alfred Yellam was taken upon the night of the fifteenth. Very few prisoners have been taken lately; that would make the enquiry comparatively simple." "I'll draw that cover to-morrow morning." Hamlin thanked him and hurried away. The Squire was amazing. To travel to London in this bitter weather meant the sacrifice of what the genial Autocrat ranked high--comfort. He would go, like a terrier to a fox, straight to a Mandarin and bark at him, worry him, stick to him, till a pledge was extracted. He thought of the trains congested by Christmas travel, the lack of porters and taxis. Obviously, the Squire recked nothing of this in his hot desire to do a kind turn to a humble neighbour. Hamlin reflected that Christmas would be the cosier to the Autocrat after a cold excursion. He remembered hearing him say that he never appreciated his own fireside so much as after a bad day's hunting, when the wind blew chill from the north and hounds wouldn't run a yard.