I glanced along the row of pews. At the end of the one parallel with ours across the aisle sat Reuben in his clean smock, his fine old parchment-colored face set in the quiet lines induced by sleepiness and the suitable mood for the occasion. Deborah, as I have said, came rarely to church; she always declared that a deafness, which I had never noticed in her, made the coming but a mere form, for "what was the use if you couldn't extinguish the parson?" But Reuben was a pious and constant attendant, and looked better in keeping with the place than did the owner of two keen gray eyes, just beyond him, that I noticed were fixed upon my sister's face.
They were withdrawn as soon as I turned my head, although they did not look at me, but I paid no further attention to the service that day, and for all the good I got of the sermon I might as well have stayed at home.
And yet we had a fine discourse—or so father said as we came out of church—for it was from the curate of the next parish, that young Mr. Cyril Morland, to whom he had taken such a fancy, and it was for the ragged schools, and touched on father's subject in father's own way. If I had cared to look round at him again I should have seen that his weary eyes had regained all their usual fire, and that his head was raised gazing at the impassioned young speaker.
But I did not look at father again. I sat with my eyes fixed on the old tombstone at my right, on which reposed the mail-clad figure of an ancient knight; and, for aught I knew or cared, the preacher might have been the sleepy old vicar himself, clearing his throat and humbly enunciating his well-worn sentiments. I don't remember just what my thoughts were—perhaps I could not have put them into words even then; but I know they were not of God, nor of the poor little wretched children for whom our charity was asked. When the plate came round at the end it awoke me from a dream; ah me! it was not a good dream nor a happy dream. I wondered if people were often so wicked in church.
When the service was over father went round to the back and took up little David Jarrett, whom he had carried into church. The little fellow was supposed to be better, but he did not look as though he would be long for this world, and I think he grew nearer every day to father's heart.
The vicar's young wife spoke to him as he went out in father's arms.
"You've got a very kind friend, David," she said to the child, in her weak, whining voice. "I hope you're very grateful."
A smile came over the little pinched face. The boy did not reply, but he put his arm round father's neck to make the burden easier, and looked into his eyes.
"I'm going to take you to the Grange to-day for a bit of roast beef, David. What do you say?" asked father.
"I should like to go to the Grange," said David, without making any allusion to the roast beef.