“I have had the great pleasure of the work, and it has brought me into close association with many writers, both living and dead. We have derived great benefit from our toil, Lucilla, and if the fruits of reward are to be denied us yet awhile, so be it. You remember the old story of the dying man who bade his sons dig for a treasure beneath the apple-tree. They did so, and the natural yield of the fertile earth was their reward—their own industry proved to be their treasure. If it is to be so with my book, I am content.”
Quentillian’s stern sense of the futility of false hopes kept him silent, but Lucilla said:
“Is it any use to try another publisher?”
The Canon shook his grey head.
“This is neither our first attempt nor our second. No doubt times have changed, and there is no longer the same interest taken in these researches. The wheel will come round in due course, young people, and I make no doubt that Leonidas will yet be given to the world, in God’s good time whether in my day or not. I am very well content.”
He put the heavy package into a drawer, of which he turned the key.
“You remember, Lucilla, the words inscribed upon my front page—‘Ad majorem Dei gloriam’? Surely we can trust the fulfilment of those words to Him, and as surely He can justify them in obscurity as in the notoriety of a day. We will say no more about this, children.”
He turned towards Quentillian, and smiled again.
“Nay, dear fellow, there is nothing to look so blank about. I will not deny a natural disappointment, but it is no more than that—no more than that. These things pass....”
Even to Lucilla, in private, the Canon scarcely said more. The one revelation that he did make, hardly surprised her.