In this manner had the young man won his prizes for oratory; so had he won his wife; so had he won his first pastorate; so now would he win that prize he was conscious of meriting next--a city parish--a rectorate in the chief seat of his church in America, where was all wealth and power as well as the great among men, to be swayed by his eloquence and brought at last to the Master's feet.

And here, again, would his future enlarge to prospects now but mistily surmised--prospects to be moved upon anon with triumphant tread.

Infinite aspiration opening ever beyond itself--this was his.

Meantime, step by step, with zealous care for the accuracy of each, with eyes always ahead, leaving nothing undone--he was forever fashioning the moulds into which the Spirit should materialise his benefits.
The first step was the winning of Browett--old Cyrus Browett, whose villa, in the fashion of an English manor-house, was a feature of remark even to the Edom summer dwellers--a villa whose wide grounds were so swept, garnished, trimly flowered, hedge-bordered and shrub-upholstered that, to old Edom, they were like stately parlours built foolishly out of doors.
Months had the rector of tiny St.Anne's waited for Browett to come to him, knowing that Browett must come in the end.

One less instinctively wise would have made the mistake of going to Browett.