He would have preferred to settle the Winch business out of hand, but Mr. Maydig would not let him.  But after they had worked a dozen of these domestic trivialities, their sense of power grew, their imagination began to show signs of stimulation, and their ambition enlarged.  Their first larger enterprise was due to hunger and the negligence of Mrs. Minchin, Mr. Maydig’s housekeeper.  The meal to which the minister conducted Mr. Fotheringay was certainly ill-laid and uninviting as refreshment for two industrious miracle-workers; but they were seated, and Mr. Maydig was descanting in sorrow rather than in anger upon his housekeeper’s shortcomings, before it occurred to Mr. Fotheringay that an opportunity lay before him.  “Don’t you think, Mr. Maydig,” he said, “if it isn’t a liberty, I——­”

“My dear Mr. Fotheringay!  Of course!  No—­I didn’t think.”

Mr. Fotheringay waved his hand.  “What shall we have?” he said, in a large, inclusive spirit, and, at Mr. Maydig’s order, revised the supper very thoroughly.  “As for me,” he said, eyeing Mr. Maydig’s selection, “I am always particularly fond of a tankard of stout and a nice Welsh rarebit, and I’ll order that.  I ain’t much given to Burgundy,” and forthwith stout and Welsh rarebit promptly appeared at his command.  They sat long at their supper, talking like equals, as Mr. Fotheringay presently perceived, with a glow of surprise and gratification, of all the miracles they would presently do.  “And, by-the-by, Mr. Maydig,” said Mr. Fotheringay, “I might perhaps be able to help you—­in a domestic way.”

“Don’t quite follow,” said Mr. Maydig, pouring out a glass of miraculous old Burgundy.

Mr. Fotheringay helped himself to a second Welsh rarebit out of vacancy, and took a mouthful.  “I was thinking,” he said, “I might be able (chum, chum) to work (chum, chum) a miracle with Mrs. Minchin (chum, chum)—­make her a better woman.”

Mr. Maydig put down the glass and looked doubtful.

“She’s——­She strongly objects to interference, you know, Mr. Fotheringay.  And—­as a matter of fact—­it’s well past eleven and she’s probably in bed and asleep.  Do you think, on the whole——­”

Mr. Fotheringay considered these objections.  “I don’t see that it shouldn’t be done in her sleep.”

For a time Mr. Maydig opposed the idea, and then he yielded.  Mr. Fotheringay issued his orders, and a little less at their ease, perhaps, the two gentlemen proceeded with their repast.  Mr. Maydig was enlarging on the changes he might expect in his housekeeper next day, with an optimism, that seemed even to Mr. Fotheringay’s supper senses a little forced and hectic, when a series of confused noises from upstairs began.  Their eyes exchanged interrogations, and Mr. Maydig left the room hastily.  Mr. Fotheringay heard him calling up to his housekeeper and then his footsteps going softly up to her.

In a minute or so the minister returned, his step light, his face radiant.  “Wonderful!” he said, “and touching!  Most touching!”