"No, I am he."
The visitor stared.
"You the parson?"
"I know I don't look like one," admitted Carlton, glancing from his ruined hands to the shabby clothes in which he worked; "nor can I fairly consider myself one at present. Yet I am still the only rector of this parish, and it was I who wrote to your lordship about the stone. Yours are the only quarries in this part of the country. The stone I am now using came from them. But it is just finished, and unless you will let me have some more I may have to stop; otherwise I believe that I could build up to the roof, in time, without assistance."
"And why should you?"
"My church was burnt down through my own—fault."
"I know all about that," said his lordship. "What I ask is, why should you insist upon building it up single-handed?"
"I didn't insist originally," sighed Carlton. "It is a very long story."
The earl regarded him with a pair of very penetrating little eyes; he was an ugly man with an ugly reputation, but one of those who take as little trouble to conceal their worst characteristics as to display their best.
"To be quite frank with you," said he, "I happen to know something of your story; and I consider it a jolly sight more discreditable to others than to you. That's my opinion, and I don't care who knows it. So you are really and literally doing this thing with your own two hands?"