forth did he ask himself whether he could possibly fulfil half of
what he had undertaken.

"It is easier," he reflected, "to make promises for the world to
come. Is it not also better? After all, can I not do it with a
clearer conscience?"

He walked slowly, worrying about this and fifty other things,
feeling a very Atlas under the globe's oppression. Rig way took him
across a field in which there was a newly bourgeoned copse; he
remembered that, last spring, he had found white violets about the
roots of the trees. A desire for their beauty and odour possessed
him; he turned across the grass. Presently a perfume guided him to a
certain mossy corner where pale sweet florets nestled amid their
leaves. He bent over them, and stretched his hand to pluck, but in
the same moment checked himself; why should he act the destroyer in
this spot of perfect quietness and beauty?

"Dyce would not care much about them," was another thought that came
into his mind.

He rose from his stooping posture with ache of muscles and creaking
of joints. Alas for the days when he ran and leapt and knew not
pain! Walking slowly away, he worried himself about the brevity of
life.

By a stile he passed into the highroad, at the lower end of the long
village of Alverholme. He had an appointment with his curate at the
church school, and, not to be unpunctual, he quickened his pace in
that direction. At a little distance behind him was a young lady