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“I will,” said Parson Jack, and after the tourist had gone he thought much of these two boxes. Indeed, he made and fixed up the first that same week, though he labelled it “For Church Repairs,” fighting shy of “Restoration” as too magniloquent. The second cost him long searchings of heart, and he walked over and laid the case before Parson Kendall, Rector of the near parish of St. Cadox, a good Christian and a good fellow, with whom he sometimes smoked a pipe. “Why not?” answered Parson Kendall; “it’s the most ordinary thing in the world.” “But Sir Harry may not like it.” The Rector chuckled. “If he doesn’t, he’ll consult me; and I shall ask him why he hunts a pack by subscription.”

So the second box was nailed beside the first, and excited little discussion. Indeed, the pair hung in so obscure a corner–behind the font–that at the first service only Parson Jack and the Widow Copping were aware of them. The Parson stumbled and hesitated so badly over the prayers that one or two worshippers felt sure he had been drinking; which was not the fact. The Widow Copping took no interest in collecting-boxes; and, besides, she could not read. So the innovation missed fire. Moreover, it suggested neither popery nor priestcraft, and only a fool would suspect Parson Flood of either.

The “Parson’s Box” remained, provoking no criticism. He himself had a little plan for its contents. He would spend the money on a journey to his nephew and nieces, if they were anywhere in England. He would find out. There was no hurry, he told himself, with a queer smile.

There was not. The box provoked neither ill-criticism nor effusive charity. On Trinity Sunday, when he opened it and counted out one shilling in silver and sevenpence in coppers, Parson Jack pulled a wry face and then laughed aloud.

II.

Toot–toot–toot!

The postman’s horn in the village street above him shook the Parson out of his idleness, if not out of his dark thoughts. He sprang up, gripped his shovel, and began spading the white river-sand into his sack.

“It is useless, after all,” said he to himself. “The crack on the south of the tower stands still, but the smaller and more dangerous one–the one on the weather side–is widening fast. This winter, even, may finish matters.”

He took up a few more shovelfuls. “Anyhow, it will not last my time; and since it will not–” He paused, as a thought rose before him like a blank wall. If the church fell–nay, when it fell–this comrade which had taken possession of his purposes, his fears, his fate–this enigmatic building of which he knew neither the history nor the founder’s name, but only its wounds–why, then his occupation was gone! He might outlive it for years, perhaps a third of a lifetime; but he had no hopes beyond. In imagination he saw it fall, and after that– nothing. And he laughed–not the laugh with which he had counted out the money in his collecting-box, but one of sheer self-contempt, and passing bitter.

The impression had been so sharp that he flung a glance up at the grey tower topping the grey-green rise; and with that was aware of the postman swinging, with long strides, down the slope towards him.

He turned in confusion and resumed his shovelling. Why was the man coming this way, by a path out of his daily beat? Parson Jack stooped over his work. He wished to avoid greeting him. There was talk, no doubt, up at the village. . . .

But the postman was not to be denied. He stopped and hailed across the stream.

“Hulloa, Parson! I’ve just left a letter for you up at the Parsonage: a long blue letter, and important, by the look of it, with a seal–a man’s hand coming out of a castle. Do you know it?”