The church was quite full. The beauty of its musical services had of late rendered it a resort from Ewmouth, and the present occasion had attracted every one connected with the persons concerned in the accident, as well as many of the curious. Mr. Colman, whose despair was the young clerkhood of Ewmouth, had protested against having to preach; and indeed Clement felt that he had a word to say, for had not the week been one of intensified feeling, and deepened experience? Yet even his brothers and sisters were not only sorry when they found this task unexpectedly lapsing on him, but feared that he was hardly adequate to the occasion. In general he was a careful preacher, very exact, and rather tediously accurate in citing arguments, much given to similitude and mystical interpretation, and instructive and interesting in a certain degree; but without much fire or individuality, and, as the Hepburn clique asserted, deficient in the root of the matter.

But his voice made Cherry look at him, and his countenance not only glowed with unusual colour, but had a dignity and impressiveness that assured her that she should hear something different from usual, after a text so unlikely for a funeral discourse.

After twice proclaiming that Banner under which he served, he slowly and distinctly spoke those other words, '"One shall be taken and another left. They say unto Him, Where, Lord?" Yes! Strange, startling, arbitrary, as seem often the calls to the soldiers in Christ's army, each is at its true time, for the choice is made in Love.' Then came the description of the mighty host, of their Leader and their conflict, steadfast in the Name that the day's Feast glorified, going forth conquering and to conquer, but, strange contradiction! under the Banner of Love. Love, by which their Captain had won, the work to which all were enlisted, the weapon wherewith each was to fight. Love had been their Captain's weapon, but they needed another, namely, Faith—for who could fight for a vision—who, without reliance on his general? Cause and Captain, and His power to save to the uttermost, were dwelt on in a few ardent words; and then came the picture of the serried ranks, standing fast in one army, warring as one band against darkness, foulness, cruelty, and all other evils, each fighting his individual battle in private, yet even thus striking as much for the cause as for himself. So they stood, soldiers in a campaign, aware that any moment might snatch them out of the ranks, yet also aware that not one would be taken save at the right moment when his warfare had come to the crisis. Our forefathers of old believed in glorious maidens who floated over the battle-field as choosers of the slain, and bore hero-spirits away to the Home of Triumph in chariots of light, to dwell among the brave. Like them we believe in the Triumphant Home, where dwell the brave who have stood steadfast in faith, joyful through hope, rooted in charity, bright in purity, dashing down the arrows of temptation that glint against their armour. Like them, we believe in a Chooser of the slain, bearing us, one by one, from our several posts, with longer or shorter warning, exactly when our warfare is accomplished, our individual battle is, or ought to be, won.

'Is or ought to be! That is the point. That is it on which depends the awful question, "Where, Lord?" which He who has seen beyond the grave, left unanswered. Where? Less than a week ago, on one of the days especially given to us for joy and gladness, in the very height of our mirth, came the moment of danger to fifteen of us. For thirteen of us, thanks have been today returned. "Where, Lord?" has not been said of us, but has not its echo been with us? Where? When I look back on duties neglected, on self-complacencies, on purposes fulfilled on the surface but not in the spirit, on cold-hearted devotions, on a thousand treasons against the Banner of Love, I can only cry out, "Where Lord?" and bless Him that it is the Lord my Redeemer, Who looks mercifully on His unprofitable servants, of whom the question is asked, and Who has spared me for a little space. He calls in due season. But whether the summons be welcome or the reverse, does not depend on its finding us in sunshine summer pleasure, or upon a bed of pain. No—it depends on whether we are really in our camp, our face to the foe, our ensign above us, no treason or desertion at heart. Then, spite of short-comings and failures, with the Banner over us that is Love, we shall know that death is victory; and "Where, Lord?" will be answered for ever by "Him Who liveth and was dead, and is alive for evermore."'

Felix, from his window, caught the texts, and noted the breathless hush. The Vicar of Ewmouth said, as he took leave, 'Thank you. You have touched hearts I could not reach.'

And Lance followed Clement to the library, and begged for the sermon for the Pursuivant. 'I know they would read it at Bexley, and if they care for it as I do, it ought to tell. I never heard you go on like that!'

'Here are my notes, but they will do you little good; I could not write last night.'

'You came up late enough, though!'

'I had to make it up in thought and prayer.'

'A better thing, it seems,' said Lance. 'It is a sermon to set one going, however things look!'