The Vicar was suffering-almost as much as he had suffered the night that Helen, his wife, had died-and because he was suffering he dressed his fine cameo-like face in its sunniest smile. That was his way-parts of his creed-of-daily-life, an intrinsic part of his self. A godly man, in the sweetest and strongest senses of that overused word, Philip Reynolds had a wholesome flair for the things of earth that both mellow human life and give it a tang. He liked his dinner, and he liked it good. He loved his roses, and he was vastly proud of his turnips. His modest cellar was admirably stocked. He enjoyed the logs that burned and glowed on his wide hearths. He was fond of his books-both inside and out. If he found a newly purchased book (he subscribed to no library) little worth reading, he discarded it. He gave it away, if he held it harmless; if he thought it a hurtful volume, he burned it. But his taste was broad, and his charity-to books as well as to people-was wide.