but the self-satisfaction of a good conscience. If
a man be quiet and unobtrusive, and do not
appear on platforms much, or lay himself out
to conciliate bishops, he may very easily grow
grey before he gets a living; for there is no
brevet for long service in the clerical profession.

A quiet steady persistence in cottage visiting,
cottage lecturing, visiting the sick, and teaching
the ignorant, terminates, let us say, after
twenty years, in the munificent gift of a small
living. "Let us put Little Caddleton at one
hundred and ninety-five pounds. Let us
imagine the Reverend Augustus Fifold, married, and
having an excellent but invalid wife, who has
blessed him with six children, five of whom
survive. The hard-worked curate, worn to the
bone with anxiety, small debts, and monotonous
ungrateful toil (which he once loved for its own
sake), is one day startled by the sudden bit of
astounding fortune above mentioned. Everyone
congratulates Mr. Fifold; the pale faces
around him brighten. The invalid wife, leaning
on his arm, really thinks she feels stronger.
The dunning butcher and baker doff their hats,
and express their regret that the large sum of
money which it was necessary for them to make
up the week before last made them rather forget
themselves. Farmers grudge the good man his
little windfall, and complain that every sermon
they hear costs them a guinea; and that they
don't see no manner of use in parsons and such
black cattle, for their part. Mr. Fifold wishes
his people farewell, and sheds honest tears as he
does so, for even places where one has been
simply and steadily miserable become dear to us
in time. The squire, who treats one hundred
and ninety-five pounds a year as mere salary
for a French cook, and not quite that, wishes
Mr. Fifold good luck in a patronising but
kindly way.

Moving is the first joy of the new rector.
It costs (economically done) forty pounds, and
eats deep into the first quarter's income.
The additional furnishing is another heavy
blow; but then hope, a new position, and a
certain income and independence, are before Mr.
Fifold, and he soon forgets this trouble.

Now, as we are putting this case in order to
show the hardship of the dilapidation law, not
the vicissitudes of a clerical life, let us see,
in this instance, how they will operate. Mr.
Fifold is a sanguine, careless, rather
improvident man, but painfully conscientious, and
full of all Christian charity and warmth of
heart. Accustomed to shift and struggle on the
precarious income derived from a varying
number of pupils, and constantly hoping for a
prize to turn up in the clerical lottery (not to
mention that he is cousin to the Bishop of
Shetland), he has never dwelt much on the value
of money, or the business necessity of clearness
and self-protection in money arrangements;
guileless himself, he treats all other persons as
honest, generous, and trustworthy.

Before moving to the new rectory, his
worthy wife sends him down with strict injunctions
to measure the rooms, and be careful what
he says: as the archdeacon, in a friendly letter,
has mysteriously suggested the need of caution.
The ingenuous man goes down in state to Little
Caddleton, on a bleak March day, when the
woods and hills are choked with a rainy mist.
He thinks of that unknown future day, when his
own successor may in like manner be entering
the same gate. He hears that there is a widow
with three daughters, and one son, who is a
lawyer. In his desire not to wound them, he
makes his fly stop half a mile from the house, and
wades up a miry lane to the rectory. He rings
at the bell, half ashamed of himself, and
introduces himself in the kindest and most
sympathising way to the widow. She is all tears,
all emotion and crape. The daughters and the
son appear. Lunch appears. Over the lunch,
the son suggests time; they will not be hurried,
he hopes? The legal time for them to remain
is two months, may they say six?—it is a bitter
rooting up for his dear mother. All this time
the legal son of the late incumbent is gauging
and taking stock of Mr. Fifold's good nature
and pliancy. The new rector presently promises
them four months for certain, he was nearly
promising six, being pressed artfully and suddenly,
but he drew in just in time. On his way back,
when their interview is over, he almost regrets
he did not give the widow all she asked, poor
thing!

The house turns out to be an old gable-ended
house, netted with vine-boughs, and looking
cheerful and pleasant enough, with its dentated
Queen Anne porch, and white-framed deep-sunk
windows. A long sloping garden (renowned for
strawberries) adjoins the house and the glebe
meadows. Walking there and inspecting, Mr.
Fifold feels already a spiritual peer, a lord of
land, a man of independence and social position;
and he wishes Lizzy and the children were
there to see.

"One thing," says the legal son of the late
incumbent, taking Mr. Fifold's arm, and
interrupting his complacent meditations, "one thing,
my dear sir. How shall the dilapidations be
arranged? a mere trifle, of course, as my father
spent at least a thousand pounds on the house
and offices, and the church has been lately
restored by the Throgmoggleton family. Pity
to go to the expense of two surveyors. Let
us trust to one highly honourable experienced
man: Ferker, of Slingsbury. Best for both
parties-- Ferker, just to a proverb-- friend of
the bishop's—man of business—highest
possible character." Mr. Fifold, of course, is to
attend survey and see that all is fair, honourable,
and aboveboard. Sorry to be obliged
to say, some importance to his poor mother.
Like to see the house? Spare room, rather
damp, but only wants papering—chancel old but
sound, crack or two in plaster, nothing more.
Frank man himself, likes frankness in others,
despises all pettifogging tricks—shall they say
Ferker for both?

Mr. Fifold is charmed with the frankness and
business-like promptitude of his predecessor's
son. He agrees to everything. He plunges