Mr. Norman, who was but a slight eater, adhered to the country rule, and took a mid-day dinner. This meal was always shared by little Helen, who at other times ate in her nursery with Mrs. Cope. The present day beheld the unusual spectacle of two children at the table, one on each side of the rector, who glanced at them alternately: at the one with a look of pride and affection, at the other with interest, not devoid of pain.

Truly, the contrast was decided enough. On the right hand was the little girl, whose young life had known no trouble more severe than the cutting of teeth and the whooping-cough, with bright, chubby face, which smiled even during sleep, a head covered with ringlets of the purest gold, beneath her chin a spotless pinafore, sitting severely upright on her high, cane-bottomed chair, as if in conscious dignity of her dominion, past, present and to come; handling her spoon with a natural grace, and, at the same time, somewhat of an “old-fashioned” air, such as would have made a stranger smile; her figure lit up by a ray of sunlight, which streamed full upon her through the window; as a rule, silent and thoughtful, but when spoken to, replying with a considerate gravity or a quiet mirth, alike in advance of her years.

Opposite to her sat the boy, the neglected waif of Whitecross Street, whose eight years had scarcely known a joy; in all that regards the higher nature of man far more ignorant than the little girl; in all that is base and ugly and fearful all but matured in experience.

In his outer appearance there was nothing now incongruous or repulsive; his agreeable features looked far better in the neat suit of clothes in which he was now attired than with the rags in which Mr. Norman had first seen him. But for all that it was painful to regard him. He evidently felt so completely estranged at this elegant table — he who had been accustomed to make his meals off a crust, gnawed whilst sitting on a door-step, or wandering about the streets. He did not know what to do with his knife and fork, his plate would not remain steady whilst he endeavoured to cut his meat; he kept slipping forwards on the chair, which was much too large for him; in short, he was utterly miserable. The only thing he could really succeed in eating was bread, and of that he ate as much as possible to satisfy the keen hunger he felt.

And, in addition to these temporary troubles, that look of deep sadness still rested on his face, bespeaking the one great sorrow which oppressed him. In answer to the remarks which the rector now and then addressed to him, he replied with a monosyllable, hanging his head, and seeming frightened at the sound of his own voice. He kept looking on each side of him, nervously apprehensive lest anyone should be watching him. Out of absolute pity, Mr. Norman cut the dinner as short as possible.

When released from table, Arthur, being told he might dispose of himself as he would, wandered out into the orchard behind the house, and finding a bench placed in an out-of-the-way corner, sat down and gave himself up to his thoughts, whatever they were.

Meantime little Helen, as usual after dinner, had drawn a footstool close to her father’s arm-chair and sat gazing upon the fire reflectively, waiting for the usual conversation to be opened. Her father did not appear likely to open his lips first, so the little girl broke silence.

“Father, you said Arthur’s father was dead?”

“Yes, dear.”

“And why doesn’t Arthur wear black?”

The rector paused for a moment, then replied by asking another question.

“Do you think it right to wear black when a relative dies, Helen?”

“Everybody does so, father.”

“And why do they?”

“I suppose to show that they are sorry.”

“More often to make a show of sorrow they do not feel, Helen. If one is really sorry what is gained by letting all the world know it?”

“Then you do not think it right to wear black, father?”

“It is a custom; but I think a rather foolish one.”

There was a long pause, during which Helen reflected on this point.

“Father,” she said, at length, “are not a great many customs very foolish?”

“Very many, dear.”

“Then if they are foolish, and people know it, as of course they must do, why ever do not people cease doing such things?”

Helen had now come to one of those knotty points which she had not unfrequently arrived at in her mental excursions. As she spoke her fine eyes sparkled and her voice trembled with a species of irritation.

Shaking back her curls with a pretty little movement which was habitual to her, she sat looking up into her father’s face, awaiting an answer.

“Custom, Helen,” replied Mr. Norman with a smile, as he ran his fingers through the golden ringlets which hid the child’s ears, “is a mighty god which, more or less, all the world worships, and to which it offers the most precious sacrifices — often that which it holds dearest. It does not matter whether they are willing or not to make. the sacrifice. They have all their lives worshipped the god Custom with their eyes open, and whatever it be that he claims from them they are bound to lay it upon his altar and there burn it. Sometimes it is with bursting hearts that they see their dearest hopes perishing in the flame; but it avails nothing. The god Custom is without pity.”

“I understand you, father,” replied the child, nodding her head gravely. And again there was silence for some time. Helen was the first to break it.

“Father, I read to you the other morning about the religion of the Greeks. The book said that we are better than the Greeks, for they had a great many false gods, whilst we have only one, the true one. Don’t you think we also have a great many false gods? Is not the god Custom one of them?”

The rector looked with some surprise at the speaker; but he evidently had a keen delight in her precocious wisdom.

“You are very right, Helen,” he replied. “The only difference is that we do not openly confess our gods, or make images of them. The gods of the Greeks were beautiful, and their images still form the noblest creations of art which the world has seen. Were we to make images of our false gods, they would be so terribly hideous that men would run away from them.”

“But is it possible, father, to worship these many false gods and the one true God at the same time?”

“There are very few indeed worship the true God,” replied the rector, gravely. “Even many of those who think they do so have really no idea what God is.”

“I am glad you think so, father. There is Mrs. Simpson, who teaches in the Sunday school, and who is always asking us such nasty questions about the Devil; don’t you think she is one of those people, father?”

Mr. Norman merely smiled.

Helen was too wise to press for a more explicit reply. After reflecting for a moment, she laid her hand on her father’s knee, and, looking up into his face with that expression of pure simplicity blended with curious intelligence, which gave such an unutterable charm to her young face, asked —

“Father, what is God?”

Edward Norman started, and for a moment averted his face; but he quickly recovered himself, and, fondling the child’s hands in both his own, spoke gravely.

“That is a more difficult question than you think, my dear little girl. It is the most difficult question that we can ask ourselves in this world. Do you ever feel that you have it in your power to choose between two things you would like to do, and when you come to think them over, see clearly that one is good and the other bad?”

“Oh, often, father!”

“And which do you feel you ought to do, the good thing or the bad thing?”

“The good thing.”

“Very well. Did you ever compare two objects together and say to yourself that one is beautiful and one is ugly?”

“Often.”

“And which of these would you keep if you had the choice?”

“The beautiful thing, of course.”

“You are right. Then you have learned that there is something in your mind which gives you the power of distinguishing between a good and a bad action, a beautiful and an ugly thing, and also bids you choose the good and the beautiful rather than the bad or the ugly. And this something is God.”

Helen made no reply, and very shortly after she rose, kissed her father, as usual, and ran to look for Arthur.

Edward Norman passed the rest of his afternoon in writing letters.

Shortly after tea, in accordance with the arrangement made with Mr. Whiffle, the rector set out in Arthur’s company for the curate’s residence. This was situated some quarter of an hour’s walk off, and the way thither led across bare fields. Mr. Norman took the boy’s hand, and questioned him as they walked, endeavouring to destroy the painful diffidence which marked Arthur’s conduct in his company. Between the questions and replies, Arthur looked up once or twice as if about to speak, but always dropped his head when his eye met Mr. Norman’s.

“Is there something you wish to say, Arthur?” asked the latter, at length.

“Where — where have they buried father, sir?” was the question spoken in trembling tones.

“I will take you to see some day,” replied the rector.

“You will?” asked Arthur, with eagerness.

“Yes, but not just yet. Do you think you can be happy with us here, Arthur?”

“I’ll try to be, sir,” replied the boy.

Then the rector began to describe the delights of the country in summer time, the beauty of the fields when they had cast off their winter garments, and clad themselves with grass and flowers and sunlight, to greet the coming of spring; he did his best to interest the boy in scenes and occupations which the latter’s fancy, through inexperience of the beautiful, was quite unable to realise. He did not seem heedless to these prospects, for once or twice he looked up at the speaker with an expression of surprise, but then ensued a sigh as the old look of melancholy took possession of his features.

“I am taking you, Arthur,” said the rector, at last, “to see a gentleman who will do his best to teach you, and make a clever man of you. You say you never went to school?”

“No, sir. Father began to teach me to read, but he hadn’t time, and soon left off. He always said the school cost too much.”

“Do you think you shall like to learn?”

“I think so, sir.”

“That’s right. A man is very little use in the world if he has not a good deal of knowledge, so I know you will do your best to learn all Mr. Whiffle wishes to teach you.”

“Father knew a great deal.”

“Did he? Who told you so, Arthur?”

“I remember mother saying so, a long time ago. But she said that learning was no good, and didn’t bring in any money.”

“That is not the only use of learning, my boy. But here we are; we will talk about it again as we go home.”

It was now quite dark, and the wind, which grew colder and stronger, was howling over the long hill-side, and sweeping hither and thither clouds of rustling skeleton leaves. The house they stood before had a particularly desolate appearance. In front of it was what should have been a garden, a space some six yards long by four deep, in the middle of which grew a hideous abortion of a tree. Whether it was that the aesthetic sentiments of the Whiffle family possessed but little prominence, or that the lack of space necessitated the preference of the useful to the agreeable, this space was converted into a yard for drying clothes, the abortive tree serving as a centre, whence a number of clothes-lines radiated, being affixed to poles planted against the low wall encircling the space. At present these lines were thickly hung with linen, which, thanks to the efforts of the night wind, was careering about the lines in a frantic manner, producing a decidedly peculiar effect when seen through the dark. Glimmering behind these self-constituted streamers appeared a few feeble lights, apparently coming from the windows of the house. A wicket in the wall gave admission to the sacred precincts, and Mr. Norman entered with his companion. As they drew near the door, above all the dismal howling of the wind, the cracking and flapping of the wet clothes, and the shrill rustling of dead leaves, such a chorus of infantine screams and squalls, mingled with such a shouting of maturer voices, the whole being accompanied by what appeared to be a beating upon drums, an occasional blowing of a horn, and the not unfrequent crash as of falling crockery, met the astonished ear, that Mr. Norman might well be excused when he knocked hastily and loudly, in fear lest some sudden misfortune had befallen the dwelling of his worthy curate. The knock remained unanswered, and it appearing to the rector that the urgency of the case warranted a slight disregard of ceremony, he turned the handle and entered the house.

In front appeared a flight of stairs, upon which a small oil lamp stood, faintly illumining the entrance. On either hand was a door, that on the right being, as Mr. Norman was aware, the door of the curate’s so-called study, that to the left leading into the room where the family mostly lived. The latter stood slightly ajar, and from the other side of it proceeded the hubbub, which was as yet far from diminishing. On pushing open the door, an extraordinary scene disclosed itself. In a room tolerably well furnished as dining and sitting-room combined, appeared to be collected the whole of the Whiffle family; Mr. Orlando Whiffle, Mrs. Whiffle, and the eight children. Half the table was covered with a white cloth, and laid with tea things, the other half was covered with a heap of newly-washed clothes, which Mrs. Whiffle had evidently been in the process of ironing when the present fracas commenced. The following was the tableau: in the centre of the room stood Mr. Whiffle, his coat thrown off, his hair more stubbornly self-assertive than ever, in the act of administering corporal punishment to his first-born, Master Augustus Whiffle. With one arm he had secured the lithe youngster in that position which is technically known as “chancery,” while the other hand, armed with a schoolmaster’s cane, descended with alarming rapidity upon the most sensitive portion of the captive’s frame. From every pore of Mr. Whiffle’s body the perspiration streamed profusely, and, not content with the violence of his muscular exertion, he was engaged in the hopeless task of endeavouring to drown with his own voice the yells of his struggling victim. Poor Mrs. Whiffle, a very little, inoffensive-looking woman, from whose eyes the tears were streaming at the sight of young Augustus’ sufferings, was doing her best with cries and entreaties to mitigate her husband’s wrath, whilst at the same time it was all she could do to exercise surveillance over the other seven children. Three of these, two girls and a very little boy, had crept under the table in terror, where, notwithstanding, they were doing their best simultaneously to empty a small pot of jam, one moment squalling in fright and sympathy, the next licking their lips in satisfaction after a delicious mouthful. Another little boy, evidently hard-hearted and callous to his brother’s sufferings, had taken advantage of his mother’s back being turned, to mount a lofty chair and grasp at a sugar basin which stood on the top shelf of an open cupboard, and now stood balancing himself in a position which was not a little dangerous. The sixth, a little girl, Mrs. Whiffle had inadvertently knocked over into the fire-place, and was now endeavouring, by the way, as it were, to solace, but only with the result of increasing its howling. And, finally, the seventh and eighth, who were twins, and were now lying together in a cradle close by the table, not content with vying in the exercise of their shrill pipes, were taking a still more effective method of attracting attention by lugging one corner of the table cloth, which they had succeeded in catching hold of, till one by one the tea things began to roll on to the floor, some breaking, some spilling their contents, all adding their individual cracks and bumps to the total of domestic discord.

The appearance of the rector at the door was instantaneous in its effect, one moment din insufferable, the next, absolute silence, save for the suppressed moaning of the twins, the sobs of the rest of the children and their mother, and the pantings of Mr. Whiffle, whose appearance, as he stood with one arm still raised over the body of his prostrate son, made a very excellent caricature of a victorious gladiator appealing to the verdict of thumbs. Silence was broken by the rector’s mild and good-natured tones.

“I fear I have come at an inopportune moment,” he said, bowing courteously to the distracted lady of the house, who was hurriedly doing her best to put things in order.

“Not at all, my dear sir, not at all,” panted Mr. Whiffle, in his usual sprightly manner, wiping his forehead the while with an immense yellow silk handkerchief. “You beheld me in the act of visiting with condign chastisement a refractory young son of the Church, that is all, I assure you.”

Then, turning to his wife, he added —

“My dear, I quite neglected to tell you that Mr. Norman was so good as to promise to look in this evening. My dear sir, this incorrigible young Israelite, whom I should have called Benoni rather than Augustus, for he verily seems destined to be the son of my sorrow, was, just before you entered, caught in the very act — in flagrante delicto — of emptying the milk pot over a sermon which I have been at more than usual pains to compose. Do you not agree with me in thinking that even now the offence exceeds the punishment?”

Mr. Norman replied by a few humorous remarks, and then proceeded by means of a little kindly attention to each of the children, as his manner was, to restore what order he could into this house of perpetual discord. By accepting Mrs. Whiffle’s offer of a cup of tea, he caused a smile once more to rise to the face of that much suffering woman, who was indeed so accustomed to episodes such as that just concluded that it very soon passed out of her mind.

The cup of tea finished as soon as possible, he left Arthur to the attention of Mrs. Whiffle and her brood, and gladly accepted the curate’s invitation to cross the passage and enter the study. Here the disorder was little inferior to that exhibited in the other room, but as it was only books that were strewn about in every corner, in every stage of dilapidation, and mostly covered with the thickest conceivable layer of dust, the rector bore it with more equanimity. Mr. Whiffle enlivened a small fire which was struggling in the grate, and invited his visitor to be seated.

“You must be very fond of children, Mr. Whiffle,” began the rector, whilst the other was putting on a very ragged old coat which he took from behind the door.

“Yes, sir, yes — that is, moderately fond of them. Not that I should care to have a large family, though. Large families, in my opinion, are the source of much evil. Indeed, that is one of the tendencies of the present age against which the Church ought really to exert the plenitude of its powers. Yes; one should preach a crusade against large families. I have, in fact, a pamphlet in hand on that very subject. I hope to finish it in a week, and then I shall be so bold as to request the favour of your perusal and judgment, my dear sir.”

Mr. Norman did not smile, or indeed express any especial interest in the matter; he was too well accustomed to his curate’s humours. Orlando Whiffle never seemed to entertain the slightest suspicion that some might be tempted to consider his own family as already deserving of the epithet — large. Of this he was perfectly unconscious. And when he announced the speedy completion of a pamphlet on the subject he was equally unconscious of exposing another of his peculiarities which might well have excited a sense of the ridiculous. It was — or was supposed to be — the constant occupation of his leisure to engage in the composition of pamphlets on an infinity of subjects, with the curious circumstance that he had never been known to publish, or indeed to complete, one of them. At least three times a week he announced to the rector his intention immediately to submit to his criticism a brief brochure on some burning question of the day; but Mr. Norman’s critical powers must have languished from inaction had they found no other field than Mr. Whiffle’s literary productions. But to the curate himself there was nothing ridiculous in all this; he simply was not aware of his own inconsistencies.

Having turned aside the literary topic, with a suitable remark, Edward Norman then proceeded to the more immediate object of his visit, and stated briefly the plan he thought it would be advisable to pursue in Arthur’s preliminary instruction.

“Have you thought at all, sir,” asked Mr. Whiffle, “what his career in life shall be?”

“Not precisely. It is hardly a momentous question yet.”

“Train him up to the service of the Temple!” cried Mr. Whiffle, with enthusiasm. “Make of him a pillar of the Establishment! I have thought over the matter the whole day, my dear sir, and the more I reflect upon that boy’s features the more convinced I am that he was born to be a bishop. I once entered upon an exhaustive study of comparative physiognomy, my dear sir, and even went so far as to pen a pamphlet on what I purposed making one division of a great work: the ‘Ecclesiastical Physiognomy.’ I will hunt it up and let you see it. Close study of the countenances of our prelates, sir, has given me fundamental ideas on the subject. I pronounce it: Arthur Golding will one day rule a diocese, and to Orlando Whiffle will be due the credit of having instilled into his mind the fundamental principles of the great Establishment he is to adorn!”

“We shall see,” responded the rector, coolly, “whether he shows a turn for the Church.”

“A turn, my dear sir! In a child of his age there is no — no turn! We can make what we like of him! That is the very point I always insist upon as firmly in my arguments on the subject of education. If only The Church is permitted an opportunity of conducting the education of children from their earliest years, she will have no difficulty in imbuing one and all with sound Church principles. It is the decreasing influence of The Church in this sphere of youthful education to which is due the prevalence of false doctrine, heresy and schism, and to which will ere long be attributed the downfall of this nation’s prosperity!”

It will be observed that I always print “The Church” in Mr. Whiffle’s speeches, for, indeed, the capitals are my only possible method of indicating the tone in which he pronounced these words. All the arrogance of priestly tyranny, all the bombast of clerical professions, all the fatuity of ecclesiastical self-esteem arose before the mind like a picture at the sound of “The Church” as pronounced by Mr. Whiffle. The man gloried in the words; he rolled them on his tongue as an exquisite delicacy. And yet it would have been difficult to account for his enthusiasm, for as yet the Church had given him nothing save various curacies, the incomes of which scarcely sufficed to maintain his ever-increasing family. In all probability it was his fundamentally vulgar nature sympathising with the arrogant pretentions and abortive performances of the institution he belonged to. Preeminence in the Church was for Mr. Whiffle the goal of all earthly wishes, and it was very characteristic of the man’s nature that down in the depths of his heart, unspoken midst all his inconsequential chatter, rested and grew a firm expectation that one day, though it might be long in coming, that Church would recognise the abilities of its faithful servant, and Orlando Whiffle would, even in this life, find his reward.

It was the favourite employment of his reveries to trace his own hypothetical course up the scale of clerical dignities till, in sweet fancy, he saw himself pocketing the first year’s income of a bishop’s see. For in his devotion to the Establishment he was by no means free from worldly views, though it would be inaccurate to represent these as his only motive. Whenever conversation touched on the subject of ecclesiastical salaries, as it not unfrequently would when a few curates of the countryside met together, Orlando Whiffle felt himself in his element. He possessed an amount of knowledge on the subject to which few could pretend. On this, indeed, he might have been capable of writing a pamphlet, and a remarkably interesting pamphlet it would have been. He was great on the topic of simony, spoke of it with a kind of predilection, and a calm ignoring of moral objections such as only an ecclesiastic can pretend to. Clerical agencies he was well acquainted with, and could tell you their respective advantages or disadvantages better than the agents themselves. But most delightful was it to hear him speak of a clerical scandal, any disgraceful case that might for the moment be attracting attention in the papers. What breathless interest he took in such revelations. Shame! he exhibited not a grain of it. He gloried in the foulest details. You would have thought, to hear him, that no one but a clergyman had a right to disgrace the name of humanity.

But to return to our narration. The interview did not last long, for the terms, which were no unimportant item in the business, were speedily and satisfactorily arranged. When the two returned to the parlour they found Arthur sitting on a stool by the fireside, quite surrounded by a swarm of young Whiffles, who were assailing him with all manner of questions, and had evidently succeeded in making him perfectly uncomfortable.

“Well, my dear boy,” exclaimed the curate, laying his hands upon his head, “tomorrow we take our first trip on the flowery paths of culture. Have you learnt your Catechism, my boy?”

Arthur looked up in bewilderment, then turned away from the faces gazing at him, and shook his head.

“Cheer up, Arthur!” put in Mr. Norman, encouragingly. “We’ll soon remedy all that, won’t we?”

It was not many minutes before they took their departure, and the boy was evidently glad to exchange the warm but noisy room for the dark, windy fields. As the rector passed out of the door, Mr. Whiffle took the opportunity of whispering to him —

“A bishop, my dear sir; a bishop, or I’ll never prophesy again!”