any one who knows Val will be ready to affirm; but his
health would not stand the hard work and close confinement of a town,
and he was forced against his will to relinquish his post. His
attraction had always been toward a studious life, so it came about
that he was sent up here, where he has time to study to his heart's
content, since his flock will never be anything but small. Moreover,
his share of poor old Dad's worldly substance enables him to live, for
the emoluments here would scarcely support a canary-bird.

Yet it must not be supposed that Val is rolling in riches. In the
first place, poor Dad had to sell a good deal of property to make good
his losses from unfortunate investments, and he had not overmuch to
leave us. His worldly wisdom, too, taught him to be sparing with Val.

"He would spend his half in a month, Ted," said the old Pater shrewdly,
when he came to settle his worldly affairs. "I shall therefore leave
the bulk of everything to you, and trust to you to provide liberally
for the dear boy."

Dad's remark is the best possible clue to Val's character. Had he
nothing else to give, Val would strip the very coat off his own back,
when it was a question of relieving distress. So it is a part of my
duty to see that he is clothed and fed as he ought to be, and a
difficult job it is at times.

I suppose I ought to give some idea of Val's appearance, if this is to
be a proper literary turn-out. When we both were younger, it was
commonly said by aunts, uncles, and such like, that one was the image
of the other. That would be scarcely a fair description now. I am
thin; Val is inclined to become chubby. I have a beard and he is
necessarily shaven; he needs glasses always, and I only for reading.
With these preliminary observations I may say that Val is about five
feet six in his shoes, of dark complexion, and with hair inclining to
gray. He is quiet in manner, yet withal a charming companion when
called upon to talk. The people worship him; that is the best
testimonial of a country priest, and all that I need say about his
interior man.

If I did not know for certain that Longfellow never set eyes on
Ardmuirland, I should maintain that the lines at the head of this
chapter were meant for a description of it. For "the steel-blue rim of
the ocean" is but three miles distant from this heather-clad,
wind-swept height, which rises some seven hundred feet above it.
Moreover, as one gazes down, the