“Say rather, to the level of Jeremy Taylor,” returned Polwarth, “who was the son of a barber; or of Tillotson, who was the son of a clothier, or something of the sort, and certainly a fierce dissenter. His enemies said the archbishop himself was never baptized. By-the-way, he was not ordained till he was thirty--and that bears on what I was just saying to Mr. Wingfold, that I would have no one ordained till after forty, by which time he would know whether he had any real call or only a temptation to the church, from the base hope of an easy living.” By this time Mrs. Ramshorn had had more than enough of it. The man was a leveller, a chartist, a positivist--a despiser of dignities! “Mr.--, Mr.--, I don’t know your name--you will oblige me by uttering no more such vile slanders in my company. You are talking about what you don’t in the least understand. The man who does not respect the religion of his native country is capable of--of--of ANYTHING.--I am astonished, Mr. Wingfold, at your allowing a member of your congregation to speak with so little regard for the feelings of the clergy.--You forget, sir, when you attribute what you call base motives to the cloth--you forget who said the labourer was worthy of his hire.” “I hope not, madam. I only venture to suggest that, though the labourer is worthy of his hire, not every man is worthy of the labour.” Wingfold was highly amused at the turn things had taken. Polwarth looked annoyed at having allowed himself to be beguiled into such an utterly useless beating of the air. “My friend HAS some rather peculiar notions, Mrs. Ramshorn,” said the curate; “but you must admit it was your approval that encouraged him to go on.” “It is quite as well to know what people think,” answered Mrs. Ramshorn, pretending she had drawn him out from suspicion. “My husband used to say that very few of the clergy had any notion of the envy and opposition of the lower orders, both to them personally, and to the doctrines they taught. To low human nature the truth has always been unpalatable.” What precisely she meant by THE TRUTH it would be hard to say, but if the visual embodiment of it was not a departed dean, it was at least always associated in her mind with a cathedral choir, and a portly person in silk stockings. Here happily Leopold woke, and his eyes fell upon the gate-keeper. “Ah, Mr. Polwarth! I am so glad to see you!” he said. “I am getting on, you see. It will be over soon.” “I see,” replied Polwarth, going up to him, and taking his offered hand in both his. “I could almost envy you for having got so near the end of your troubles.” “Are you sure it will be the end of them, sir?” “Of some of them at least, I hope, and those the worst. I cannot be sure of anything but that all things work together for good to them that love God.” “I don’t know yet whether I do love God.” “Not the father of Jesus Christ?”