"I'll do my best,"--he said, quietly--"I know what you mean--and I think your feeling does you honour. Of course you know I'm only a kind of stranger here--just a poor old lonely man, very dependent on Miss Deane for her care of me, and trying my best to show that I'm not ungrateful to her for all her goodness--and I mustn't presume too far--but--I'll do my best. And I hope--I hope all will be well!" He paused--and pressed Reay's hand again--then glanced up at the quaint sheep-faced clock that ticked monotonously against the kitchen wall. "She will be coming back from church directly,"--he continued--"Won't you go and meet her?" "Shall I?" And Reay's face brightened. "Do!" Another moment, and Helmsley was alone--save for the silent company of the little dog stretched out upon the hearth. And he lost himself in a profound reverie, the while he built a castle in the air of his own designing, in which Self had no part. How many airy fabrics of beauty and joy had he not raised one after the other in his mind, only to see them crumble into dust!--but this one, as he planned it in his thoughts, nobly uplifted above all petty limits, with all the light of a broad beneficence shining upon it, and a grand obliteration of his own personality serving as the very cornerstone of its foundation, seemed likely to be something resembling the house spoken of by Christ, which was built upon a rock--against which neither winds, nor rains, nor floods could prevail. And when Mary came back from Church, with Reay accompanying her, she found him looking very happy. In fact, she told him he had quite "a Christmas face." "What is a Christmas face, Mary?" he asked, smiling. "Don't you know? A face that looks glad because other people are glad,"--she replied, simply. An expressive glance flashed from Reay's eyes,--a glance which Helmsley caught and understood in all its eloquent meaning. "We had quite a touching little sermon this morning," she went on, untying her bonnet strings, and taking off that unassuming head-gear--"It was just a homely simple, kind talk. Our parson's sorry to be going away, but he hopes to be back with us at the beginning of April, fit and well again. He's looking badly, poor soul! I felt a bit like crying when he wished us all a bright Christmas and happy New Year, and said he hoped God would allow him to see us all again." "Who is going to take charge of the parish in his absence?" asked Reay. "A Mr. Arbroath. He isn't a very popular man in these parts, and I can't think why he has volunteered to come here, seeing he's got several parishes of his own on the other side of Dunster to attend to. But I'm told he also wants a change--so he's got some one to take his duties, and he is coming along to us. Of course, it's well known that he likes to try a new parish whenever he can." "Has he any reason for that special taste?" enquired Reay.