had been so systematically biased. Entering Oxford, he became absorbed
in its academical shades. Amidst his books he almost forgot the
impediment of his speech. Shy, taciturn, and solitary, he mixed too
little with others to have it much brought before his own notice. He
carried off prizes; he took high honours. On leaving the University, a
profound theologian, an enthusiastic Churchman, filled with the most
earnest sense of the pastor's solemn calling,--he was thus
complimentarily accosted by the Archimandrite of his college, "What a
pity you cannot go into the Church!"

"Cannot; but I am going into the Church."

"You! is it possible? But, perhaps, you are sure of a living--"

"Yes,--Humberston."

"An immense living, but a very large population. Certainly it is in the
bishop's own discretionary power to ordain you, and for all the duties
you can keep a curate." But the Don stopped short, and took snuff.

That "but" said as plainly as words could say, "It may be a good thing
for you; but is it fair for the Church?"

So George Morley at least thought that "but" implied.

His conscience took alarm. He was a thoroughly noble-hearted man, likely
to be the more tender of conscience where tempted by worldly interests.
With that living he was rich, without it very poor. But to give up a
calling, to the idea of which he had attached himself with all the force
of a powerful and zealous nature, was to give up the whole scheme and