Saint's Progress. John Galsworthy

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      “I know; but Daddy was getting bored, weren't you, dear? This is Cyril Morland.”

      Pierson shook the young man's hand.

      “Daddy, your nose is burnt!”

      “My dear; I know.”

      “I can give you some white stuff for it. You have to sleep with it on all night. Uncle and Auntie both use it.”

      “Nollie!”

      “Well, Eve says so. If you're going to bathe, Cyril, look out for that current!”

      The young man, gazing at her with undisguised adoration, muttered:

      “Rather!” and went out.

      Noel's eyes lingered after him; Eve broke a silence.

      “If you're going to have a bath before tea, Nollie, you'd better hurry up.”

      “All right. Was it jolly in the Abbey, Daddy?”

      “Lovely; like a great piece of music.”

      “Daddy always puts everything into music. You ought to see it by moonlight; it's gorgeous then. All right, Eve; I'm coming.” But she did not get up, and when Eve was gone, cuddled her arm through her father's and murmured:

      “What d'you think of Cyril?”

      “My dear, how can I tell? He seems a nice-looking young man.”

      “All right, Daddy; don't strain yourself. It's jolly down here, isn't it?” She got up, stretched herself a little, and moved away, looking like a very tall child, with her short hair curling in round her head.

      Pierson, watching her vanish past the curtain, thought: 'What a lovely thing she is!' And he got up too, but instead of following, went to the piano, and began to play Mendelssohn's Prelude and Fugue in E minor. He had a fine touch, and played with a sort of dreamy passion. It was his way out of perplexities, regrets, and longings; a way which never quite failed him.

      At Cambridge, he had intended to take up music as a profession, but family tradition had destined him for Holy Orders, and an emotional Church revival of that day had caught him in its stream. He had always had private means, and those early years before he married had passed happily in an East-End parish. To have not only opportunity but power to help in the lives of the poor had been fascinating; simple himself, the simple folk of his parish had taken hold of his heart. When, however, he married Agnes Heriot, he was given a parish of his own on the borders of East and West, where he had been ever since, even after her death had nearly killed him. It was better to go on where work and all reminded him of one whom he had resolved never to forget in other ties. But he knew that his work had not the zest it used to have in her day, or even before her day. It may well be doubted whether he, who had been in Holy Orders twenty-six years, quite knew now what he believed. Everything had become circumscribed, and fixed, by thousands of his own utterances; to have taken fresh stock of his faith, to have gone deep into its roots, would have been like taking up the foundations of a still-standing house. Some men naturally root themselves in the inexpressible—for which one formula is much the same as another; though Edward Pierson, gently dogmatic, undoubtedly preferred his High-Church statement of the inexpressible to that of, say, the Zoroastrians. The subtleties of change, the modifications by science, left little sense of inconsistency or treason on his soul. Sensitive, charitable, and only combative deep down, he instinctively avoided discussion on matters where he might hurt others or they hurt him. And, since explanation was the last thing which o could be expected of one who did not base himself on Reason, he had found but scant occasion ever to examine anything. Just as in the old Abbey he had soared off into the infinite with the hawk, the beetles, and the grasses, so now, at the piano, by these sounds of his own making, he was caught away again into emotionalism, without realising that he was in one of his, most religious moods.

      “Aren't you coming to tea, Edward?”

      The woman standing behind him, in a lilac-coloured gown, had one of those faces which remain innocent to the end of the chapter, in spite of the complete knowledge of life which appertains to mothers. In days of suffering and anxiety, like these of the great war, Thirza Pierson was a valuable person. Without ever expressing an opinion on cosmic matters, she reconfirmed certain cosmic truths, such as that though the whole world was at war, there was such a thing as peace; that though all the sons of mothers were being killed, there remained such a thing as motherhood; that while everybody was living for the future, the present still existed. Her tranquil, tender, matter-of-fact busyness, and the dew in her eyes, had been proof against twenty-three years of life on a tea-plantation in the hot part of Ceylon; against Bob Pierson; against the anxiety of having two sons at the front, and the confidences of nearly every one she came across. Nothing disturbed her. She was like a painting of “Goodness” by an Old Master, restored by Kate Greenaway. She never went to meet life, but when it came, made the best of it. This was her secret, and Pierson always felt rested in her presence.

      He rose, and moved by her side, over the lawn, towards the big tree at the bottom of the garden.

      “How d'you think Noel is looking, Edward?”

      “Very pretty. That young man, Thirza?”

      “Yes; I'm afraid he's over head and ears in love with her.”

      At the dismayed sound he uttered, she slipped her soft round arm within his. “He's going to the front soon, poor boy!”

      “Have they talked to you?”

      “He has. Nollie hasn't yet.”

      “Nollie is a queer child, Thirza.”

      “Nollie is a darling, but rather a desperate character, Edward.”

      Pierson sighed.

      In a swing under the tree, where the tea-things were set out, the “rather desperate character” was swaying. “What a picture she is!” he said, and sighed again.

      The voice of his brother came to them,—high and steamy, as though corrupted by the climate of Ceylon:

      “You incorrigible dreamy chap, Ted! We've eaten all the raspberries. Eve, give him some jam; he must be dead! Phew! the heat! Come on, my dear, and pour out his tea. Hallo, Cyril! Had a good bathe? By George, wish my head was wet! Squattez-vous down over there, by Nollie; she'll swing, and keep the flies off you.”

      “Give me a cigarette, Uncle Bob—”

      “What! Your father doesn't—”

      “Just for the flies. You don't mind, Daddy?”

      “Not if it's necessary, my dear.”

      Noel smiled, showing her upper teeth, and her eyes seemed to swim under their long lashes.

      “It isn't necessary, but it's nice.”

      “Ah, ha!” said Bob Pierson. “Here you are, Nollie!”

      But Noel shook her head. At that moment she struck her father as startlingly grown-up-so composed, swaying above that young man at her feet, whose sunny face was all adoration. 'No longer a child!' he thought. 'Dear Nollie!'

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