. . . Yet
as a man nears his end he feels an increasing desire to be honest,
neither professing more than he knows, nor hiding any small article
of knowledge as inexpedient to the Faith. The Faith, he begins to
see, can take care of itself: for him, it is important to await his
marching-orders with a clean breast. Eh, Dick?"
The Senior Tutor took his pipe from his mouth and nodded slowly.
"But what is your book?" he asked.
"My Parish Register. Its entries cover the years from 1660 to 1827.
Luckily I had borrowed it from the vestry box, and it was safe on my
shelf in the Vicarage on the Christmas Eve of 1870, the night when
the church took fire. That was in my second year as incumbent, and
before ever you knew these parts."
"By six months," said the Senior Tutor. "I first visited the Cove in
July, 1871, and you were then beginning to clear the ruins. All the
village talk still ran on the fire, with speculations on the cause of
it."
"The cause," said the Vicar, "will never be known. I may say that
pretty confidently, having spent more time in guessing than will ever
be spent by another man. . . . But since you never saw the old church
as it stood, you never saw the Heathen Lovers in the south aisle.
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