down, and somehow this took a lot of the starch out of him.

"You were saying something," said I, "about my teaching. When did I ever
teach you to keep the most vital interests of these poor people a secret
from me?"

"Well," said he, balancing the sugar in his spoon over the cup, "if
there was one lesson more than another that was continually dinned into
my ears, it was: 'When a young man comes into a strange parish, he
must be all eyes and ears, but no tongue,' and I think you quoted some
grave authorities for that aphorism."

[Illustration: "Was there anything wrong with the chicken?"]

"Quite so," I replied. "I think it is a most wholesome advice. For there
never yet was a young man that was not disposed to think that he could
run a parish better than all the pastors that lived for generations
there. But did you understand me to say that we were never to talk over
and discuss parochial affairs?"

"Well, I confess," said he, "I did not. But you see, sir, your thoughts
were running in quite another channel. You were interested in the
classics and in literary matters."

"My conscience, my dear boy, has already made me aware of that, and in
somewhat more forcible and less polite language than you have used. Now,
I admit that I have been a surly old curmudgeon this afternoon, and I am
sorry for it; but hereafter, don't leave me in the dark any longer about
my parishioners. It seems to me that, if we dropped our occasional
uncharitableness about each other and our more occasional criticisms on
our superiors, and addressed ourselves to the work God gives us to do in
that limited circle He has drawn about us, it would be all the better."

"Well, sir, I quite agree with you. But I must say that for the few
months I have been here, I do not remember to have heard much
uncharitableness about our brethren from you."

There now! How can you be angry with a fellow like that? The black cloud
turned softly into gray, and the gray turned slowly round, and showed
only the silver lining.

CHAPTER XXI

THE FACTORY

Notwithstanding my gloomy forebodings, I find that Father Letheby has
eagerly grasped the idea of writing on the historical and philosophical
subjects I had suggested. Where he got books of reference I know not,
nor can I conjecture; but he has a silent way of accomplishing things
that would seem to a slow-moving mind like my own little short of a
miracle. When, therefore, one fine day in early April I