CHAPTER XXXIII.
A REVIEW.
The curate walked hurriedly home, and seated himself at his table,
where yet lay his Greek Testament open at the passage he had been
pondering for his sermon. Alas! all he had then been thinking with
such fervour had vanished. He knew his inspiring text, but the rest
was gone. Worst of all, feeling was gone with thought, and was, for
the time at least, beyond recall. Righteous as his anger was, it had
ruffled the mirror of his soul till it could no longer reflect
heavenly things. He rose, caught up his New Testament, and went to
the church-yard. It was a still place, and since the pains of a new
birth had come upon him, he had often sought the shelter of its
calm. A few yards from the wall of the rectory garden stood an old
yew-tree, and a little nearer on one side was a small thicket of
cypress; between these and the wall was an ancient stone upon which
he generally seated himself. It had already begun to be called the
curate's chair. Most imagined him drawn thither by a clerical love
of gloom, but in that case he could scarcely have had such delight
in seeing the sky through the dark foliage of the yew: he thought
the parts so seen looked more divinely blue than any of the rest.
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