"It is useless, after all," said he to himself. "The crack on the south of the tower stands still, but the smaller and more dangerous one--the one on the weather side--is widening fast. This winter, even, may finish matters." He took up a few more shovelfuls. "Anyhow, it will not last my time; and since it will not--" He paused, as a thought rose before him like a blank wall. If the church fell--nay, _when_ it fell--this comrade which had taken possession of his purposes, his fears, his fate--this enigmatic building of which he knew neither the history nor the founder's name, but only its wounds--why, then his occupation was gone! He might outlive it for years, perhaps a third of a lifetime; but he had no hopes beyond. In imagination he saw it fall, and after that-- nothing. And he laughed--not the laugh with which he had counted out the money in his collecting-box, but one of sheer self-contempt, and passing bitter. The impression had been so sharp that he flung a glance up at the grey tower topping the grey-green rise; and with that was aware of the postman swinging, with long strides, down the slope towards him. He turned in confusion and resumed his shovelling. Why was the man coming this way, by a path out of his daily beat? Parson Jack stooped over his work. He wished to avoid greeting him. There was talk, no doubt, up at the village. . . . But the postman was not to be denied. He stopped and hailed across the stream. "Hulloa, Parson! I've just left a letter for you up at the Parsonage: a long blue letter, and important, by the look of it, with a seal--a man's hand coming out of a castle. Do you know it?" "No," answered Parson Jack. "Did you come out of your way to tell me this?" "Not quite; though I'd do as much for 'ee any day, out of friendliness. But, tell 'ee the truth, I was sent to seek you with a message." "A message?" "Sir Harry has ridden over from Carwithiel, and wants you up to church. He's there waitin' with his nephew, a narra-chested slip of a chap with a square-cut collar and a Popish sort of face." Parson Jack lifted his shovel and passed his palm over its blade, which the sand had already polished. "Thank you," said he, "I'll be going at once." But he made no motion to start while the postman stood eyeing him. A sudden selfish fear paralysed him. Had Sir Harry heard? And was this the end of his patron's forbearance? No; the news could not have reached Carwithiel so quickly. He had no enemy to arise early and carry it; to no living creature were even his follies of such importance. "Don't forget your letter," the postman reminded him, moving off towards the foot-bridge.