She was not sorry when Fred took him off to his "den," as he called his very comfortable and commodious study. But she said, with a pretty monitorial air, and a careful eye to the sermon for to-morrow—"Remember, Fred, this is Saturday night."
Then the real talk began. Jack, in writing from Aleppo, had simply told of his father's death, and added that he himself had endured and seen much suffering, and that he was coming home to tell the rest. Now he poured forth the whole story into willing and sympathizing ears.
Lucy went up to bed that night wondering if Fred and the new cousin would ever stop talking, and full of anxious thoughts about the neglected sermon. As long as she stayed awake she heard their voices in the room underneath her own; and at last she dropped asleep, with the sermon still upon her mind.
Waking in the early summer morning, she heard steps in the passage outside her door, and words spoken that seemed to echo her thoughts.
"But your sermon?"
"I have got it. Good night—or rather, good morning."
Chapter XXVI A SERMON
"Thy Father hears the mighty cry of anguish,