The fool saith, Who would have thought it?

WINTER had brought trouble with it to Warpington Vicarage. A new baby had arrived, and the old baby was learning, not in silence, what kings and ministers undergo when they are deposed. Hester had never greatly cared for the old baby. She was secretly afraid of it. But in its hour of adversity she took to it, and she and Regie spent many hours consoling it for the arrival of the little chrysalis upstairs.

Mrs. Gresley recovered slowly, and before she was downstairs again Regie sickened with one of those swift sudden illnesses of childhood which make childless women thank God for denying them their prayers.

Mrs. Gresley was not well enough to be told, and for many days Mr. Gresley and Hester and Doctor Brown held Regie forcibly back from the valley of the shadow where, since the first cradle was rocked, the soft feet of children have cleft so sharp an entrance over the mother hearts that vainly barred the way.

Mr. Gresley’s face grew as thin as Hester’s as the days went by. On his rounds, for he let nothing interfere with his work, heavy farmers in dog carts, who opposed him at vestry meetings, stopped to ask after Regie. The most sullen of his parishioners touched their hats to him as he passed, and mothers of families who never could be induced to leave their cooking to attend morning service, and were deeply offended at being called “after-dinner Christians” in consequence, forgot the opprobrious term, and brought little offerings of new-laid eggs and rosy apples to tempt “the little master.”

Mr. Gresley was touched, grateful.

“I don’t think I have always done them justice,” he actually said to Hester one day. “They do seem to understand me a little better at last. Walsh has never spoken to me since my sermon on Dissent, though I always make a point of being friendly to him, but to-day he stopped and said he knew what trouble was, and how he had lost”— Mr. Gresley’s voice faltered, “It is a long time ago — but how, when he was about my age, he lost his eldest boy, and how he always remembered Regie in his prayers, and I must keep up a good heart. We shook hands,” said Mr. Gresley. “I sometimes think Walsh means well, and that he may be a good-hearted man after all.”

Beneath the arrogance which a belief in Apostolic succession seems to induce in natures like Mr. Gresley’s, as mountain air induces asthma in certain lungs, the shaft of agonised anxiety had pierced to a thin layer of humility. Hester knew that that layer was only momentarily disturbed, and that the old self would infallibly reassert itself, but the momentary glimpse drew her heart towards her brother. He was conscious of it, and love almost grew between them as they watched by Regie’s bed.

At last, after an endless night, the little faltering feet came to the dividing of the ways, and hesitated. The dawn fell grey on the watchful faces of the doctor and Hester, and on the dumb suspense of the poor father. And with a sigh, as one who half knows he is making a life-long mistake, Regie settled himself against Hester’s shoulder and fell asleep.

The hours passed. The light grew strong, and still Regie slept. Doctor Brown put cushions behind Hester, and gave her food. He looked anxiously at her. “Can you manage?” he whispered later, when the sun was streaming in at the nursery window. And she smiled back in scorn. Could she manage? What did he take her for?

At last Regie stretched himself and opened his eyes. The doctor took him gently from Hester, gave him food, and laid him down.

“He is all right,” he said. “He will sleep all day.”

Mr. Gresley, who had hardly stirred, hid his face in his hands.

“Don’t try to move, Miss Hester,” said Doctor Brown gently.

Hester did not try. She could not. Her hands and face were rigid. She looked at him in terror. “I shall have to scream in another moment,” she whispered.

The old doctor picked her up, and carried her swiftly to her room, where Fraülein ministered to her.

At last he came down and found Mr. Gresley waiting for him at the foot of the stair.

“You are sure he is all right?” he asked.

“Sure! Fraülein is with him. He got the turn at dawn.”

“Thank God!”

“Well, I should say thank your sister too. She saved him. I tell you, Gresley, neither you nor I could have sat all those hours without stirring as she did. She had cramp after the first hour. She has a will of iron in that weak body of hers.”

“I had no idea she was uncomfortable,” said Mr. Gresley, half incredulous.

“That is one of the reasons why I always say you ought not to be a clergyman,” snapped the little doctor, and was gone.

Mr. Gresley was not offended. He was too overwhelmed with thankfulness to be piqued.

“Good old Brown,” he said indulgently. “He has been up all night, and he is so tired he does not know he is talking nonsense. As if a man who did not understand cramp was not qualified to be a priest. Ha! Ha! He always likes to have a little hit at me, and he is welcome to it. I must just creep up and kiss dear Hester. I never should have thought she had it in her to care for any one as she has shown she cares for Regie. I shall tell her so, and how surprised I am, and how I love her for it. She has always seemed so insensible, so callous. But, please God, this is the beginning of a new life for her. If it is she shall never hear one word of reproach about the past from me.”

A day or two later the Bishop of Southminster had a touch of rheumatism, and Doctor Brown attended him. This momentary malady may possibly account to the reader for an incident which remained to the end of life inexplicable to Mr. Gresley.

Two days after Regie had taken the turn towards health, and on the afternoon of the very same day when Doctor Brown had interviewed the Bishop’s rheumatism, the episcopal carriage might have been seen squeezing its august proportions into the narrow drive of Warpington Vicarage; at least, it was always called the drive, though the horses’ noses were reflected in the glass of the front door while the hind-wheels still jarred the gate-posts.

Out of the carriage stepped, not the Bishop, but the tall figure of Dick Vernon, who rang the bell, and then examined a crack in the portico.

He had plenty of time to do so.

“Lord! what fools!” he said half aloud. “The crazy thing is shouting out that it is going to drop on their heads, and they put a clamp across the crack. Might as well put a respirator on a South Sea Islander. Is Mr. Gresley in? Well then, just ask him to step this way, will you? Look here, James, if you want to be had up for manslaughter, you leave this porch as it is. No, I did not drive over from Southminster on purpose to tell you, but I mention it now I am here.”

“I added the portico myself when I came here,” said Mr. Gresley stiffly, who had not forgotten or forgiven the enormity of Dick’s behaviour at the temperance meeting.

“So I should have thought,” said Dick, warming to the subject, and mounting on a small garden-chair. “And ............