on had done him the honour to be present; his fellow-curates read
the prayers and lessons.

As he ascended the pulpit he thought he saw the white bonnets of a group
of nurses in the dim distance of one of the aisles, but he did not see
Glory and he dared not look again. His text was, "My kingdom is not of
this world." He gave it out twice, and his voice sounded strange to
himself--so weak and thin in that hollow place.

When he began to speak his sentences seemed awkward and difficult. The
things of the world were temporal and the nations of the world were out
of harmony with God. Men were biting and devouring each other who ought
to live as brothers. "Cheat or be cheated" was the rule of life, as the
modern philosopher had said. On the one side were the many dying of want,
on the other side the few occupied with poetry and art, writing addresses
to flowers, and peddling--in the portraiture of the moods and methods of
love, living lives of frivolity, taking pleasure in mere riches and the
lusts of the eye, while thousands of wretched mortals were grovelling in
the mire.... Then where was our refuge?... The Church was the refuge of
God's people... from Christ came the answer--the answer--the----

His words would not flow. He fought hard, threw out another passage, then
stammered, began again, stammered again, felt hot, made a fresh effort,
flagged, rattled out some words he had fixed in his mind, perspired, lost
his voice, and finally stopped in the middle of a sentence and said, "And
now to God the Father--" and came down from the pulpit.

His sermon had been a failure, and he knew it. On going back to the
sacristy the Reverend Golightly congratulated him with a simper and a
vapid smile. The canon was more honest but more vain. He mingled lofty
advice with gentle reproof. Mr. Storm had taken his task too lightly.
Better if he had written his sermon and read it. Whatever might serve for
the country, congregations in London--at All Saints' especially--expected
culture and preparation.

"For my own part I confess--nay, I am proud to declare--my watchword is
Rehearse! Rehearse! Rehearse!"

As for the doctrine of the sermon it was not above question. It was
necessary to live in the _nineteenth_ century, and it was impossible to
apply to its conditions the rules of life that had been proper to the
first.

John Storm made no resistance. He slept badly that night. As often as he
dozed off he dreamed that he was trying to