o the rut of a listless parish
priest--a solitary man, careless of his dress as of his duties, loved
by his parishioners for the kindness of his heart. They said that
sorrow had broken him; but the case was worse than this. He had lost
assurance of God's goodness.

He could not, with such a doubt in his heart, go to his wife's family
for comfort. He loved them as ever; but he could not trust their
love to deal tenderly with his infidelity. No Wesley would ever have
let a human sorrow interfere with faith: no Wesley (it seemed to him)
would understand such a disaster. It was upon this thought that he
had called John a hard man. He recognised the truth and that he was
but brittle earthenware beside these hammered vessels of service.

Nevertheless, when in obedience to Mr. Wesley's message he presented
himself at Epworth, he was surprised by the calm everyday air with
which the old man received him. He had expected at least some word
of his grief, some fatherly pressure of the hand. There was none.
He knew, to be sure, that old age deadened sensibility. But, after
all, his dear Molly had been this man's child, if not the
best-beloved.

"Son Whitelamb, my hand is weary, and there is much to write.
Help me to my dearest wish on earth--the only wish now left to me:
help me that Jack may inherit Epworth cure when I am gone. Hear what
he objects: 'The question is not whether I could do more good there
or here in Oxford, _but whether I could do more good to myself_;
seeing wherever I can be most holy myself, there I can most promote
holiness in others. But I can improve myself more at Oxford than at
any other place.' The lad must think I forget my logic. See you, he
juggles me with identical propositions! First it is no question of
doing good to others, but to himself; and anon when he does most good
to himself he will do most good to others. Am I a dead dog, to be
pelted with such sophisms? Son Whitelamb, is your pen ready?"

"Of what avail is it?" John Whitelamb asked himself. "These men,
father and son, decide first, and, having decided, find no lack of
arguments. It is but pride of the mind in which they clothe their
will. Moreover, if there be a God, what a vain conflict am I aiding!
seeing that time with Him is not, and all has been decided from the
beginning."

Yet he took down the answer with his habitual care, glancing up in
the pauses at the old face, gray and intense beneath the dark
skull-ca