the effort.

Once there had seemed the beginning of a chance. The richest banker in
Octavius--a fat, sensual, hog-faced old bachelor--surprised everybody
one evening by entering the church and taking a seat. Theron happened
to know who he was; even if he had not known, the suppressed excitement
visible in the congregation, the way the sisters turned round to
look, the way the more important brethren put their heads together and
exchanged furtive whispers--would have warned him that big game was in
view. He recalled afterward with something like self-disgust the eager,
almost tremulous pains he himself took to please this banker. There was
a part of the sermon, as it had been written out, which might easily
give offence to a single man of wealth and free notions of life. With
the alertness of a mental gymnast, Theron ran ahead, excised this
portion, and had ready when the gap was reached some very pretty general
remarks, all the more effective and eloquent, he felt, for having
been extemporized. People said it was a good sermon; and after
the benediction and dispersion some of the officials and principal
pew-holders remained to talk over the likelihood of a capture having
been effected. Theron did not get away without having this mentioned
to him, and he was conscious of sharing deeply the hope of the
brethren--with the added reflection that it would be a personal triumph
for himself into the bargain. He was ashamed of this feeling a little
later, and of his trick with the sermon. But this chastening product
of introspection was all the fruit which the incident bore. The banker
never came again.

Theron returned one afternoon, a little earlier than usual, from a group
of pastoral calls. Alice, who was plucking weeds in a border at the
shady side of the house, heard his step, and rose from her labors. He
was walking slowly, and seemed weary. He took off his high hat, as
he saw her, and wiped his brow. The broiling June sun was still high
overhead. Doubtless it was its insufferable heat which was accountable
for the worn lines in his face and the spiritless air which the wife's
eye detected. She went to the gate, and kissed him as he entered.

"I believe if I were you," she said, "I'd carry an umbrella such
scorching days as this. Nobody'd think anything of it. I don't see why a
minister shouldn't carry one as much as a woman carries a parasol."

Theron gave her a rueful, meditative sort of smile. "I suppose people
re