There's a back door at
the end o' the passage. You've only to slip a bolt an' you'm out in the
garden--out to your boat, if you choose to keep one. But the garden's a
tidy little spot to walk up an' down in an' make up your sermons, wi'
nobody to overlook you but the folk next door; an' they'm church-goers."
After supper that evening, the young minister unpacked his books and was
about to arrange them, but drifted to the window instead. He paused for
a minute or two with his face close to the pane, and then flung up the
sash. A faint north wind breathed down the harbour, scarcely ruffling
the water. Around and above him the frosty sky flashed with innumerable
stars, and over the barque's masts, behind the long chine of the eastern
hill, a soft radiance heralded the rising moon. It was a young moon,
and, while he waited, her thin horn pushed up through the furze brake on
the hill's summit and she mounted into the free heaven. With upturned
eye the young minister followed her course for twenty minutes, not
consciously observant; for he was thinking over his ambitions, and at
his time of life these are apt to soar with the moon. Though possessed
with zeal for good work in this small seaside town, he intended that
Troy should be but a stepping-stone in his journey. He meant to go far.
And while he meditated his future, forgetting the chill in the night
air, it was being decided for him by a stronger will than his own.
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