When Archibald stopped singing, he said that he must go to his study for an hour's work before evening service. Mark accompanied him. As soon as they were alone, he blurted out what was in his mind.
"I say, Archie, if you want a little help, I'm your man. I suppose work means the preparation of your Advent sermons. I helped you last year. Shall I help you this?"
Archibald's face flushed.
"I don't know what's wrong with me," he muttered; "but ideas don't flow. If you would help—but, but you have your own work."
"My work! Well, it's lucky I've an allowance, or I should certainly starve. Archie, I'd like to help you. I ask it as a favour. Come on; what's the use of jawing? What's it to be this Advent? I thought of something in church this morning which you might lick into shape."
He filled his pipe, talking in his hesitating yet voluble way. Archibald, the practical, took a pad to jot down notes in shorthand. Mark began to pace the room as his ideas flowed faster. It seemed to him that he had dammed them up for many months; now they came down like the Crask after a big rain, a cleansing flood, carrying away all refuse, all barriers. When he had finished, Archibald arose ponderously and shook his hand.
"You're a wonderful fellow," he said slowly; "the hare you, the tortoise I. It was always so."
"The tortoise won the r-r-race," said Mark.
When he went to bed that night he flung open wide the window of his room. Outside, the night was inky black and tempestuous. Not a star to be seen above, and the lamps below burning dimly, throwing pale circles of light upon the wet, muddy street. Mark stood inhaling the fresh air, drawing long and deep breaths, saturating himself with it. Presently he muttered:
"I may be happy yet."