the right side of his broad waistcoat instead of the left. He could
afford to joke on the subject now that the grass grew high in the little
country churchyard where he had laid his young wife fifteen years
before. In those days he was a grave, self-contained man, but that
sorrow had entirely changed his nature. The true William Morgan only
came out on paper now.

Mr. Bodery was right. Christian had yet to learn a great lesson, and
unconsciously he was even now beginning to grasp its meaning. His whole
mind was full of his work, and out of those earnest grey eyes his soul
was looking at the man who was perhaps saving his life.

"We can easily manage it," said the editor, continuing his advantage. "I
will take over the foreign policy article. The reviewing you can do
yourself, as we can always send you the books, and there is no pressing
hurry about them. The general work we will manage somehow--won't we,
Morgan?"

"Of course we will; as well as and perhaps better than he could do it
himself, eh? Ha, ha!"

"But seriously, Vellacott," continued Mr. Bodery, "things will go on
just as well for a time. When I was young I used to make that mistake
too. I thought that no one could manage things like myself, but in time
I realised (as you will do some day) that things went on as smoothly
when I was away. Depend upon it, my boy, when a man is put on the shelf,
worn out and useless, another soon fills his place. You are too young to
go on the shelf yet. To please me, Vellacott, go away for three weeks."

"You are very kind, sir--" began the young fellow, but Mr. Bodery