e motive is to
'live for others.' Of truly persuading themselves--that is the strange
thing. This, it seems to us, is morally far worse than the unconscious
hypocrisy which here and there exists in professors of the old
religion; there is something more nauseous about self-deceiving
'altruism' than in the attitude of a man who, thoroughly worldly in
fact, believes himself a hopeful candidate for personal salvation."
Certain recent letters of Dyce appeared in a new light when seen from
this point of view. It was too disagreeable a subject; the vicar strove
to dismiss it from his mind.

In the afternoon, he had to visit a dying man, an intelligent
shopkeeper, who, while accepting the visit as a proof of kindness,
altogether refused spiritual comfort, and would speak of nothing but
the future of his children. Straightway Mr. Lashmar became the
practical consoler, lavish of kindly forethought. Only when he came
forth did he ask himself whether he could possibly fulfil half of what
he had undertaken.

"It is easier," he reflected, "to make promises for the world to come.
Is it not also better? After all, can I not do it with a clearer
conscience?"

He walked slowly, worrying about this and fifty other things, feeling a
very Atlas under the globe's oppression. Rig way took him across a
field in which there was a newly bourgeoned copse; he remembered that,
last spring, he had found white violets about the roots of the trees. A
desire for their beauty and odour possessed him; he turned across the
grass. Presently a perfume guided him to a certain mossy corner where
pale sweet florets nestled amid their leaves. He bent over them, and
stretched his hand to pluck, but in the same moment checked himself;
why should he act the destroyer in this spot of perfect quietness and
beauty?

"Dyce would not care much about them," was another thought that came
into his mind.

He rose from his stooping posture with ache of muscles and creaking of
joints. Alas for the days when he ran and leapt and knew not pain!
Walking slowly away, he worried himself about the brevity of life.

By a stile he passed into the highroad, at the lower end of the long
village of Alverholme. He had an appointment with his curate at the
church school, and, not to be unpunctual, he quickened his pace in that
direction. At a little distance behind him was a young lady whom he had
not noticed; she, recognizing the vicar, pursued with light, quick
step, and soon