The curate’s search, it will be remarked, had already widened greatly the sphere of his doubts; but, the larger the field, the greater the chance of finding a marl-pit; and, if there be such a thing as truth, every fresh doubt is yet another finger-post pointing towards its dwelling.--So talked the curate to himself, and, full in the face, rounding the corner of a street, met George Bascombe. The young barrister held out his large hospitable hand at the full length of his arm, and spread abroad his wide chest to greet him, and they went through the ceremony of shaking hands,--which, even in their case, I cannot judge so degrading and hypocritical as the Latin nations seem to consider it. Then Wingfold had the first word. “I have not yet had an opportunity of thanking you for the great service you have done me,” he said. “I am glad to know I have such an honour; but--” “I mean, in opening my eyes to my true position.” “Ah, my dear fellow! I was sure you only required to have your attention turned in the right direction. When--?--ah!--I--I was on the verge of committing the solecism of asking you when you thought of resigning. Ha! ha!” “Not yet,” replied Wingfold to the question thus at once withdrawn and put. “The more I look into the matter, the more reason I find for hoping it may be possible for me to--to--keep the appointment.” “Oh!” “The further I inquire, the more am I convinced that, if not in a certain portion of what the church teaches, then nowhere else, and assuredly not in what you teach, shall I find anything by which life can either account for or justify itself.” “But if what you find is not true!” cried George, with a burst of semi-grand indignation. “But if what I find should be true, even though you should never be able to see it!” returned the curate. And as if disjected by an explosion between them, the two men were ten paces asunder, each hurrying his own way. “If I can’t prove there is a God,” said Wingfold to himself, “as little surely can he prove there is none.” But then came the thought--“The fellow will say that, there being no sign of a God, the burden of proof lies with me.” And therewith he saw how useless it would be to discuss the question with any one who, not seeing him, had no desire to see him. “No,” he said, “my business is not to prove to any other man that there is a God, but to find him for myself. If I should find him, then will be time enough to think of showing him.” And with that his thoughts turned from Bascombe, and went back to the draper. When he reached home, he took out his sonnet, but, after working at it for a little while, he found that he must ease his heart by writing another. Here it is: