they ever had," as they truly
called him. Some of them had seen memorial-windows, and they wanted
Mr. Yolland to take from each a small weekly subscription throughout
the winter, to adorn the new chapel with windows. "With the history of
Samson a killin' of the lion," called out a gruff voice. It was the
voice of the father of the boy whom Harold had rescued on Neme Heath.

"So," said George Yolland, as he told me, "the poor fellows' hearty way
was almost more than one could bear, but I knew Alison would have me
try to turn it to some sort of good to themselves; so I stood up and
said I'd take it on one condition only. They knew very well what vexed
Mr. Alison most in themselves, and the example he had set--how he had
striven to make them give up making beasts of themselves. Wouldn't they
think with me it was insulting him to let a drunkard have a hand in
doing a thing to his memory? So I would manage their collection on
condition they agreed that whoever took more than his decent pint a
day--or whatever else sober men among them chose to fix it at--should
have his money returned on the spot. Poor fellows, they cheered and
said I was in the right, but whether they will keep to it is another
thing."

They did keep to it. All that winter, while the chapel was building,
there were only five cases in which the money had to be returned, and
two of those took the pledge, pleaded hard, and were restored. Indeed,
I believe it was only the habitually sober who ventured on the
tolerated pint. Of course there were some who never came into the
thing at all, and continued in their usual course; but these were the
dregs, sure to be found everywhere, and the main body of the Hydriot
potters kept their word so staunchly, that the demon of intoxication
among them was slain by those Samson windows, as Harold had never slain
it during his life.

Beautiful bright windows they are, glowing with Samson in his typical
might, slaying his lion, out of the strong finding sweetness, drinking
water after the fight, bearing away the gates, and slaying his foes in
his death. But Samson is not there alone. As the more thoughtful
remarked, Samson was scarce a worthy likeness for one who had had grace
to triumph. No, Samson, whose life always seems like a great type in
shattered fragments, must be set in juxtaposition with the great
Antitype. His conflict with Satan, His Last Supper, His pointing out
the Water of Life, His Death and His v