There is, however, one thing I can never do:--I am quite unable to
put into words my friend's intensely strong feeling with regard to
the sacredness of his profession. It seemed to me not unlike the
feeling of Isaiah when, in the vision, his mouth had been touched
with the celestial fire. And I can only hope that something of this
may be read between my very inadequate lines.
Looking back, I fancy Derrick must have been a clever child. But he
was not precocious, and in some respects was even decidedly
backward. I can see him now--it is my first clear recollection of
him--leaning back in the corner of my father's carriage as we drove
from the Newmarket station to our summer home at Mondisfield. He
and I were small boys of eight, and Derrick had been invited for the
holidays, while his twin brother--if I remember right--indulged in
typhoid fever at Kensington. He was shy and silent, and the ice was
not broken until we passed Silvery Steeple.
"That," said my father, "is a ruined church; it was destroyed by
Cromwell in the Civil Wars."
In an instant the small quiet boy sitting beside me was transformed.
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