"How will He Take It?"
WHEN Doris's tap sounded at the study door, it found Mr. Winton at his ever-recurring struggle to compose two sermons for the following Sunday. At week-day services he was content, usually, to use old compositions; but for Sunday he sternly compelled himself to make fresh ones. And the task was hard. Not that he did not know, did not feel, did not realise, did not love, the things about which he had to preach; but that the gift of expression was not his. He could be, and live, and do,—but he could not speak. And a clergyman has to speak. It is one main part of his work.
"Come in," he called.
"Father, I want to speak to you."
Doris shut the door, and stood on the other side of his writing-table, her head thrown back.
"Mother has been trying to make me say that I'll give up Dick."
"Yes."
"Ought I?"
Mr. Winton kept uneasy silence. His shaggy eyebrows drew together.
"He loves me, and I love him. Ought I to give him up now—only because his people are not exactly what one would choose?"