Gryce founded his prophecy; and through them,
too, it came about that he proved a true prophet. In three days' time
from this the post brought a letter to Alick Corfield from the bishop
offering him the perpetual curacy of Monk Grange, income seventy pounds
a year and a house.
Before speaking even to his mother, Alick rushed off with this letter to
Mr. Gryce. The old leaven of superstition which works more or less in
all of us--even those few who think proof a desirable basis for belief,
and who require an examination conducted on scientific principles before
they accept supernaturalism as "only another law coming in to modify
those already known"--that superstition which belongs to most men, and
to Alick with the rest, made this letter a matter of tremendous
excitement to him. He saw in it the hand of God and the finger of Fate.
It was impossible that Mr. Gryce, living at North Aston, should know
anything of a small country incumbency in the North. It was all that
study made of his poor parched and knuckly hand. And what had been seen
there was manifestly the thing ruled for him by Providence and destiny.
"How could you possibly tell?" he cried, looking at his own hand as if
he could read it as his clever friend had done.
"That is my secret," said Emmanuel, smiling at the credulity on which he
traded. Then, thinking a flutter outward of the corners of his cards the
best policy in the circumstances about them at the moment, he added,
"And when you get there you will understand more than you do now.
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