It sounds almost ludicrous now, but--” “God forbid!” said Wingfold. “I’m glad you don’t think so, sir. I was afraid you would.” “Had the thing been a trifle, I should still have said the same,” returned the curate. “But who with any heart would call it--a trifle to please the fancy of a poor woman, one who is probably far oftener vexed than pleased? She had been brooding over this dress--you took trouble to content her with her desire. Who knows what it may do for the growth of the woman? I know what you’ve done for me by the story of it.” “She did walk out pleased-like,” said the draper, “--and left me more pleased than she,--and so grateful to her for coming--you can’t think!” “I begin to suspect,” said the curate, after a pause, “that the common transactions of life are the most sacred channels for the spread of the heavenly leaven. There was ten times more of the divine in selling her that gown as you did, in the name of God, than in taking her into your pew and singing out of the same hymn-book with her.” “I should be glad to do that next though, if I had the chance,” said Mr. Drew. “You must not think, because he has done me so little good, that our minister is not a faithful preacher; and, owing you more than heart can tell, sir, I like chapel better than church, and consider it nearer the right way. I don’t mean to be a turncoat, and leave Drake for you, sir; I must give up my deaconship, but I won’t my pew or my subscription.” “Quite right, Mr. Drew,” said Wingfold; “that could do nothing but harm. I have just been reading what our Lord says about proselytizing. Good night.” CHAPTER X. HOME AGAIN. The curate had entered the draper’s shop in the full blaze of sunset, but the demon of unbelief sat on his shoulders; he could get no nearer his heart, but that was enough to make of the “majestical roof fretted with golden fire .... a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.” When he left the shop, the sun was far below the horizon, and the glory had faded out of the west; but the demon had fled, and the brown feathers of the twilight were beautiful as the wings of the silver dove, sprung heavenwards from among the pots. And as he went he reasoned with himself-- “Either there is a God, and that God the perfect heart of truth and loveliness, or all poetry and art is but an unsown, unplanted, rootless flower, crowning a somewhat symmetrical heap of stones. The man who sees no beauty in its petals, finds no perfume in its breath, may well accord it the parentage of the stones; the man whose heart swells beholding it will be ready to think it has roots that reach below them.”