his own good cause by the injudicious manner
in which he had put it forward. At the risk of all rebuffs, he would
express his regret; he would go down and apologise to Mr Sharnall, and
offer, if need be, the other cheek to the smiter.

Good resolves, if formed with the earnest intention of carrying them
into effect, seldom fail to restore a measure of peace to the troubled
mind. It is only when a regular and ghastly see-saw of wrong-doing and
repentance has been established, and when the mind can no longer deceive
even itself as to the possibility of permanent uprightness of life, that
good resolves cease to tranquillise. Such a see-saw must gradually lose
its regularity; the set towards evil grows more and more preponderant;
the return to virtue rarer and more brief. Despair of any continuity of
godliness follows, and then it is that good resolves, becoming a mere
reflex action of the mind, fail in their gracious influence, and cease
to bring quiet. These conditions can scarcely occur before middle age,
and Westray, being young and eminently conscientious, was feeling the
full peacefulness of his high-minded intention steal over him, when the
door opened, and the organist entered.

An outbreak of temper and a night of hard drinking had left their tokens
on Mr Sharnall's face. He looked haggard, and the rings that a weak
heart had drawn under his eyes were darker and more puffed. He came in
awkwardly, and walked quickly to the architect, holding out his hand.

"Forgive me, Westray," he said; "I behaved last night like a fool and a
cad. You were quite right to speak to me as you did; I honour you for
it. I wish to God there had been someone to speak to me like that years
ago."

His outstretched hand was not so white as it should have been, the nails
were not so well trimmed as a more fastidious mood might have demanded;
but Westray did not notice these things. He took the shaky old hand,
and gripped it warmly, not saying anything, because he could not speak.

"We _must_ be friends," the organist went on, after a moment's pause;
"we must be friends, because I can't afford to lose you. I haven't
known you long, but you are the only friend I have in the world. Is it
not an awful thing to confess?" he said, with a tremulous little laugh.
"I have no other friend in the world. Say those things you said last
night whenever you like; the oftener you say them the better."

He sat down, and, the situation being t