Adjusting his
spectacles, he read: "_God have Mercy on the Soul of Giles Tonkin.
Obiit Dec. 17th, 1643. No man can serve two masters_."

"A strange text for a tombstone," he commented. "And the date--1643?
That is the year when our city surrendered in the Parliament wars.
. . . Who knows but this may have marked the grave of a man shot
because he hesitated too long in taking sides . . . or perchance in
his flurry he took both, and tried to serve two masters."

"Master, I am that man. . . . Do not look at me so! I mean that,
whether he knew it or not, he died to save me . . . that his stone
has risen up for witness, driving me to you. Ah, do not weaken me,
now that I am here to confess!"

And leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands spread to
hide his face, Mr. Simeon blurted out his confession.

When he had ended there was silence in the room for a space.

"Tarbolt!" murmured the Master, just audibly and no more.
"If it had been anyone but Tarbolt!"

There was another silence, broken only by one slow sob.

"_For either he will hate the one and love the other; or else he will
hold to the one and despise the other_. . . Simeon, which was I?"

Mr. Simeon forced himself to look up. Tears were in his eyes, but
they shone.

"Master, can you doubt?"

"I am sorry to appear brutal," said Master Blanchminster, coldly and
wearily, "but my experiences to-day have been somewhat trying for an
old man. May I ask if, on taking your resolution to confess, you
came straight to me; or if, receiving just dismissal from my service,
you yet hold Canon Tarbolt in reserve?"

Mr. Simeon stood up.

"I have behaved so badly to you, sir, that you have a right to ask
it. But as a fact I went to Canon Tarbolt first, and said I could no
longer work for him."

"Sit down, please. . . . How many children have you, Mr. Simeon?"

"Seven, sir. . . . The seventh arrived a fortnight ago--yesterday
fortnight, to be precise. A fine boy, I am happy to say."

He looked up pitifully. The Master stood above him, smiling down;
and while the Master's stature seemed to have taken some additional
inches, his smile seemed to irradiate the room.

"Simeon, I begin to think it high time I raised your salary."

CHAPTER XXIII.

CORONA'S BIRTHDAY.

The May-fly season had come around again, and Corona was spending her
Saturday--the Greycoats' holiday--with Brother Copas by the banks of
Mere. They had brought their frugal lu