ith unquestioned sincerity, were hot and
forceful, his logic clear, his conclusions inescapable. He spoke
eloquently, his manner was impressive, and his delivery beyond
criticism. His hearers gave him their closest attention. Many of them
heard so well that later they would recall graphic bits, to quote, and
to use as explanation of their admiration of him. But not a brow
clouded. Not a soul was pained. He never perturbed his congregation.
Judge Wolcott expressed its feelings when he said, "I like to hear
Arnold preach because it brightens the day for me." Imrie was hardly a
Savonarola.

They had had disagreeable preachers at Braeburn, once or twice. One was
a particular disappointment. He was a missionary bishop from somewhere
in Africa, and the renown of his exploits had filled every seat. But he
proved to be an unattractive little man, with a falsetto voice and
shabby clothes, who not only spoke very badly, but who said some very
unnecessary and unpleasant things. Arnold Imrie was different. He spoke
their language, and they understood him. He was one of them. He had
grown up in their midst. Many of them called him by his first name. He
was perhaps a trifle too serious to people who found life rather more
amusing than otherwise, but on the whole they thought him more than
satisfactory. He was a gentleman. He was good. He was sincere. He was
orthodox. He never failed to point out the error of their ways--but he
never failed to do it with subtlety. And in a day when so many clergymen
were allowing themselves to wander into undesirable, if not absolutely
forbidden fields, he stuck to religion, where he belonged. And he was
not only delightful in the pulpit, but one could ask him to dine, with
perfect confidence in the result. As Good listened he turned to survey
the congregation. There was unqualified approval on every face. He
listened for a moment or two longer. Then he smiled faintly, as one
might at a play he has seen several times, and fell to counting the
ticking of his watch, wondering how much longer the sermon would last.

Nor was his impatience lost on Judith.

But Imrie never preached long sermons. In a very few minutes he had
wound up with his usual stirring peroration, and left the pulpit. Good
had an almost irresistible impulse to clap, not as expressing
approbation, but admiration for a difficult task well done. He
smiled--not wholly pleasantly--at the look of devout complacency on the
faces of all the