d tea in her thirtieth summer-house last Sunday,' remarked
the Squire grimly. 'She wished me to communicate the fact to you and
Mrs. Elsmere. Also, that the worst novel of the century will be out in
a fortnight, and she trusts to you to see it well reviewed in all the
leading journals.'

Robert laughed, but it was not very easy to laugh. There was a sort of
ghastly undercurrent in the Squire's sarcasms that effectually deprived
them of anything mirthful.

'And your book?'

'Is in abeyance. I shall bequeath you the manuscript in my will, to do
what you like with.'

'Squire!'

'Quite true! If you had stayed, I should have finished it, I suppose.
But after a certain age the toil of spinning cobwebs entirely out of his
own brain becomes too much for a man.'

It was the first thing of the sort that iron mouth had ever said to him.
Elsmere was painfully touched.

'You must not--you shall not give it up,' he urged. Publish the first
part alone, and ask me for any help you please.'

The Squire shook his head.

'Let it be. Your paper in the "Nineteenth Century" showed me that the
best thing I can do is to hand on my materials to you. Though I am not
sure that when you have got them you will make the best use of them. You
and Grey between you call yourselves Liberals, and imagine yourselves
reformers, and all the while you are doing nothing but playing into the
hands of the Blacks. All this theistic philosophy of yours only means so
much grist to their mill in the end.'

'They don't see it in that light themselves,' said Robert, smiling.

'No,' returned the Squire, 'because most men are puzzle-heads. Why,' he
added, looking darkly at Robert, while the great head fell forward on
his breast in the familiar Murewell attitude, 'why can't you do your
work and let the preaching alone?'

'Because,' said Robert, 'the preaching seems to me my work. There is the
great difference between us, Squire. You look upon knowledge as an end
in itself. It may be so. But to me, knowledge has always been valuable
first and foremost for its bearing on life.'

'Fatal twist that,' returned the Squire harshly. 'Yes, I know; it was
always in you. Well, are you happy? does this new crusade of yours give
you pleasure?'

'Happiness,' replied Robert, leaning against the chimney-piece and
speaking in a low voice, 'is always relative. No one knows it better
than you. Life is full of oppositions. But the work takes my whole heart
and all my ene