ile he felt that his desire was unchanged, he knew that
there was a fresh obstacle between him and its fulfilment. Heaven help
him! had there not been enough before? Was it needful that it should
become clear to him that nowhere on earth could he find the warmth and
the sunlight for which he pined while a certain pair of sad eyes grew
ever sadder and sadder looking out on the murky sky, the smoke, the
dust, the busy industry of Brenthill? How could he go away? Even these
quiet walks of his had pain mixed with their pleasure when he thought
that there was no such liberty for Judith Lisle. Not for her the
cowslips in the upland pastures, the hawthorn in the hedges, the
elm-boughs high against the breezy sky, the first dog-roses pink upon
the briers. Percival turned from them to look at the cloud which hung
ever like a dingy smear above Brenthill, and the more he felt their
loveliness the more he felt her loss.

He had no walk on Sunday mornings. A few months earlier Mr. Clifton of
St. Sylvester's would have claimed him as a convert. Now he was equally
devout, but it was the evangelical minister, Mr. Bradbury of Christ
Church, who saw him week after week a regular attendant, undaunted and
sleepless though the sermon should be divided into seven heads. Mr.
Bradbury preached terribly, in a voice which sometimes died mournfully
away or hissed in a melodramatic whisper, and then rose suddenly in a
threatening cry. Miss Macgregor sat in front of a gallery and looked
down on the top of her pastor's head. The double row of little boys who
were marshalled at her side grew drowsy in the hot weather, blinked
feebly as the discourse progressed, and nodded at the congregation. Now
and then Mr. Bradbury, who was only, as it were, at arm's length, turned
a little, looked up and flung a red-hot denunciation into the front
seats of the gallery. The little boys woke up, heard what was most
likely in store for them on the last day, and sat with eyes wide open
dismally surveying the prospect. But presently the next boy fidgeted, or
a spider let himself down from the roof, or a bird flew past the window,
or a slanting ray of sunlight revealed a multitude of dusty dancing
motes, and the little lads forgot Mr. Bradbury, who had forgotten them
and was busy with somebody else. It might be with the pope: Mr. Bradbury
was fond of providing for the pope. Or perhaps he was wasting his energy
on Percival Thorne, who sat with his head thrown back and hi