heroes, an eminent writer: one might almost say prophet. She had
hitherto read his books with grateful reverence. They pictured for her
the world made perfect; and explained to her just precisely how it was to
be accomplished. But, as far as his own particular corner of it was
concerned, he seemed to have made a sad mess of it. Human nature of
quite an old-fashioned pattern had crept in and spoilt all his own
theories.

Of course it was unreasonable. The sign-post may remain embedded in
weeds: it notwithstanding points the way to the fair city. She told
herself this, but it left her still short-tempered. She didn't care
which way it pointed. She didn't believe there was any fair city.

There was a famous preacher. He lived the simple life in a small house
in Battersea, and consecrated all his energies to the service of the
poor. Almost, by his unselfish zeal, he had persuaded Joan of the
usefulness of the church. Mr. Airlie frequently visited him. They
interested one another. What struck Mr. Airlie most was the
self-sacrificing devotion with which the reverend gentleman's wife and
family surrounded him. It was beautiful to see. The calls upon his
moderate purse, necessitated by his wide-spread and much paragraphed
activities, left but a narrow margin for domestic expenses: with the
result that often the only fire in the house blazed brightly in the study
where Mr. Airlie and the reverend gentleman sat talking: while mother and
children warmed themselves with sense of duty in the cheerless kitchen.
And often, as Mr. Airlie, who was of an inquiring turn of mind, had
convinced himself, the only evening meal that resources would permit was
the satisfying supper for one brought by the youngest daughter to her
father where he sat alone in the small dining-room.