Said the Vicar, rising from his garden-chair, "I accept the omen.
Wait a moment, you two." He left us and went across the dim lawn to
the house, whence by and by he returned bearing a book under his arm,
and in his hand a candle, which he set down unlit upon the wicker
table among the coffee-cups.

"I am going," he said, "to tell you something which, a few years ago,
I should have scrupled to tell. With all deference to your opinions,
my dear Dick, I doubt if they quite allow you to understand the
clergy's horror of chancing a heresy; indeed, I doubt if either of
you quite guess what a bridle a man comes to wear who preaches a
hundred sermons or so every year to a rural parish, knowing that
nine-tenths of his discourse will assuredly be lost, while at any
point in the whole of it he may be fatally misunderstood. . . . Yet
as a man nears his end he feels an increasing desire to be honest,
neither professing more than he knows, nor hiding any small article
of knowledge as inexpedient to the Faith. The Faith, he begins to
see, can take care of itself: for him, it is important to await his
marching-orders with a clean breast. Eh, Dick?"

The Senior Tutor took his pipe from his mouth and nodded slowly.

"But what is your book?" he asked.

"My Parish Register. Its entries cover the years from 1660 to 1827.
Luckily I had borrowed it from the vestry box, and it was safe on my
shelf in the Vicarage on the Christmas Eve of 1870, the night when
the church took fire. That was in my second year as incumbent, and
before ever you knew these parts."