He was troubled to-day, beyond this affliction of heat. He was the new
curate of St. Andrew's, Geoffrey McBirney, only two months in the
place--only two months, and here was the rector gone off for his summer
vacation and McBirney left at the helm of the great city parish.
Moreover, before the rector was gone a half-hour, here was the worst
business of the day upon him, the hour between four and five when the
rector was supposed to be found in the office, to receive any one who
chose to come, for advice, for godly counsel, for "any old reason," as
the man, only a few years out of college, put it to himself. He
dreaded it; he dreaded it more than he did getting up into the pulpit
of a Sunday and laying down the law--preaching. And he seriously
wished that if any one was coming they would come now, and let him do
his best, doggedly, as he meant to, and get them out of the way. Then
he might go to work at things he understood. There was a funeral at
seven; old Mrs. Harrow at the Home wanted to see him; and David
Sterling had half promised to help him with St. Agnes's Mission School,
and must be encouraged; a man in the worst tenement of the south city
had raided his wife with a knife and there was trouble, physical and
moral, and he must see to that; also Tommy Smith was dying at the
Tuberculosis Hospital and had clung to his hands yesterday, and would
not let him go--he must manage to get to little Tommy to-night. There
was plenty of real work doing, so it did seem a pity to waste Lime
waiting here for people who didn't come and who had, when they did
come, only emotional troubles to air. And the heat--the unspeakable
heat! "I can't stand it another second!" he burst out, aloud. "I'll
die--I shall die!" He flung himself across the window-sill, with his
head far out, trying to catch a breath of air that was alive.

As he stretched into the dim light, so, gasping, pulling again at the
stiff collar, he was aware of a sound; he came back into the room with