of this low world. Sypher's Cure could not stand the strain of
the increased advertisement. Shuttleworth found a dismal pleasure in the
fulfilment of his prophecy. A reduction in price had not materially
affected the sales. The Jebusa Jones people had lowered the price of the
Cuticle Remedy and still undersold the Cure. During the year the Bermondsey
works had been heavily mortgaged. The money had all been wasted on a public
that had eyes and saw not, that had ears and heard not the simple gospel of
the Friend of Humanity--"Try Sypher's Cure." In the midst of the gloom
Shuttleworth took the opportunity of deprecating the unnecessary expense of
production, never having so greatly dared before. Only the best and purest
materials had been possible for the divine ointment. By using second
qualities, a great saving could be effected without impairing the efficacy
of the Cure. Thus Shuttleworth. Sypher blazed into holy anger, as if he
had been counseled to commit sacrilege.

Radical reforms were imperative, if the Cure was to be saved. He spent his
nights over vast schemes only to find the fatal flaw in the cold light of
the morning. This angered him. It seemed that the sureness of his vision
had gone. Something strange, uncanny had happened within him, he knew not
what. It had nothing to do with his intellectual force, his personal
energy. It had nothing to do with his determination to win through and
restore the Cure to its former position in the market. It was something
subtle, spiritual.

The memory of the blistered heel lived with him. The slight doubt cast by
Septimus on Zora's faith remained disturbingly at the back of his mind. Yet
he clung passionately to his belief. If it were not Heaven-sent, then was
he of men most miserable.

Never had he welcomed the sight of Nunsmere more than the next Saturday
afternoon when the trap turned off the highroad and the common came into
view. The pearls and faint blues of the sky, the tender mist softening the
russet of the autumn trees, the gray tower of the little church, the red
roofs of the cottages dreaming in their old-world gardens, the quiet green
of the common with the children far off at play and the lame donkey
watching them in philosophic content--all came like the gift of a very calm
and restful God to the tired man's eyes.

He thought to himself: "It only lacks one figure walking across the common
to meet me." Then the thought again: "If she were there would I see