"And it bein winter and all," continued the old man, taking up the tale. "No coaches at this time o year. And dis a tidy traipse over the hill for a maid." He turned the conversation. "You'll ha walked, Mr., to judge from yer boots." ... Ernie trudged home over the greasy hills with certain clear impressions in his mind. The old folk were anxious: they did not know where Ruth was: and they would not talk. Was she writing? Was she still in Beachbourne? CHAPTER XLVI ERNIE TURNS PHILOSOPHER Ernie was now steadily ablaze. His heart was set; his purpose resolved; there was no faltering in his faith. The armour in which his spirit was cased revealed no fissures under strain. He was amazed at his own strength, and at the illimitable resources on which he could draw at will. People who saw him at this time, swept by the March winds, haggard and pinched at the _Star_ corner, wondered at the flame of determination burning in his face. "He seems always waiting for some one," said Elsie Pigott, who, like many another woman, was haunted by his wistful eyes at night. "Perhaps he is," answered Mrs. Trupp. It was the slackest season of the year--between Christmas and Easter; and there was no work obtainable. Building was held up by the frosts; visitors were sporadic; and in the East-end a strike of engineers in the great railway shops had dislocated trade. Elsie Pigott pleaded with her husband for her favourite; but for once she could not tease or taunt the Manager of the Southdown Transport Company in acquiescence with her wishes. "No," he said, sturdily, "if he wants my help he must come and ask for it. Last time I offered him a job he snubbed me brutally. I've got my self-respect same as others." That evening she came to his door. "Please, sir," she said, dropping a curtsey, "Mr. Ernest Caspar!--will you see him?" He scowled at her over his _Christian Commonwealth_. "You've done this," he said. "No, sir," demurely bobbing. "He came." "Show him in." Ernie entered, shining and unshorn, a tatterdemalion with the face of a saint. The old schoolmaster thought how like his father he was growing: the same untidy garden of flesh, the same spirit at work behind the weeds. "Well," he said, laying down his paper, "I don't see much of you at chapel these days." Ernie smiled. "I'm in chapel all the time, sir," he said. "That's what I come about. I wanted you to know." He sat down suddenly. "You know what you used to tell me about prayer when I was a nipper. _Ask, and it shall be given you_, and that." He leaned forward. "That's true--every word of it. You can have what you want for the askin--if you'll wait. Now I want something; and I shall get it in time, because I'll be faithful." Mr. Pigott looked into the rapt eager eyes of the scare-crow opposite him. For some reason he felt humiliated, even afraid; and, man-like, he concealed his qualms behind an added gruffness. "Your father's been talking to you," he said.