She stole a glance at Mrs. Yellam.
Her face remained impassive. But again intuition told Fancy that this outward calmness masked bitter trouble and perplexity. Timidly she slipped her hand into the hand of the old woman, pressing it gently. The pressure was not returned, because, perhaps, it may not have been felt. Mrs. Yellam, Fancy perceived, was staring at a mural tablet to the right of the pulpit, new and shining brass upon which were inscribed the names of two nephews of Captain Davenant. He had read the Lessons, as usual, but in a less rasping voice, so she had thought. She heard Hamlin's quiet tones:
"Let us prepare ourselves for greater sacrifices."
The rest of the sermon was devoted to particular rather than general ends. The Parson appealed, as was his wont, to the children, and the younger members of the congregation, the twigs waiting to be inclined. And to these his appeal was persuasive and suggestive, never didactic or minatory. He shone best when conducting a children's service, when he walked amongst them using the simplest words.
Perhaps he knew that the middle-aged and old could be touched to finer issues indirectly. In every heart, however worn and tired, there lingers a subtle fragrance of youth which thought of youth releases. The sad fact that many of the elder people were mourning may have tempered what speech he addressed to them, and many of them were aware of this, shifting uneasily in their pews as they remembered similar words spoken in the same place by the same man twenty years back.
Once more, Mrs. Yellam walked home in silence. Fancy, engrossed by her own thoughts, did not speak till they entered the cottage. Then she said, hesitatingly:
"'Tis strange. We talked of lean souls the first day Alfie brought me to see you."
"Ay—so we did."
"And afterwards I asked Mr. Hamlin to tell me what 'lean souls' meant."
"Did 'ee? He never looked once at me this marning."