ow, and know
that she was his wife! There is no form of passion more terrible than
this. Its very earthiness makes it awful.

The service went on. At last Mr. Granger mounted the pulpit and began
to read his sermon, of which the text was, "But the greatest of these is
charity." Geoffrey noticed that he bungled over some of the words,
then suddenly remembered Beatrice had told him that she had written the
sermon, and was all attention. He was not disappointed. Notwithstanding
Mr. Granger's infamous reading, and his habit of dropping his voice at
the end of a sentence, instead of raising it, the beauty of the thoughts
and diction was very evident. It was indeed a discourse that might
equally well have been delivered in a Mahomedan or a Buddhist place of
worship; there was nothing distinctively Christian about it, it merely
appealed to the good in human nature. But of this neither the preacher
nor his audience seemed to be aware, indeed, few of the latter were
listening at all. The sermon was short and ended with a passage of real
power and beauty--or rather it did not end, for, closing the MS. sheets,
Mr. Granger followed on with a few impromptu remarks of his own.

"And now, brethren," he said, "I have been preaching to you about
charity, but I wish to add one remark, Charity begins at home. There
is about a hundred pounds of tithe owing to me, and some of it has been
owing for two years and more. If that tithe is not paid I shall have to
put distraint on some of you, and I thought that I had better take this
opportunity to tell you so."

Then he gave the Benediction.

The contrast between this business-like speech, and the beautiful
periods which had gone before, was so ridiculous that Geoffrey very
nearly burst out laughing, and Beatrice smiled. So did the rest of the
congregation, excepting one or two who owed tithe, and Owen Davies, who
was thinking of other things.

As they went through the churchyard, Geoffrey noticed something.
Beatrice was a few paces ahead holding Effie's hand. Presently Mr.
Davies passed him, apparently without seeing him, and greeted Beatrice,
who bowed slightly in acknowledgment. He walked a little way without
speaking, then Geoffrey, just as they reached the church gate, heard him
say, "At four this afternoon, then." Again she bowed her head, and he
turned and went. As for Geoffrey, he wondered what it all meant: was she
engaged to him, or was she not?

Dinner was a somewhat silent me