“Lyle,” he replied, “is slight, but short, and dark—very dark, with a quick lively way of moving, and a rather thin, though clear voice. He has not a grain of music or poetry in his composition.”
Nothing could be more unlike the preacher of that morning.
Mildred told her husband all she could recollect of the sermon. Its vivid impression remained; but the words had grown hazy, and curiously enough she could not recall the text. But Reginald listened with full sympathy and belief.
“I wish I could have heard it,” he said. “Were the days for such blessed visitations not over, I should think.” But there he hesitated.
Mildred understood, and the words of the cripple, Mr Denis—“an angel unawares”—returned to her memory.
The events I have related were never explained, nor of the many who had been present that Sunday morning at Saint X’s did any ever again look upon the fair face of the mysterious stranger.
But—till the matter had passed from the minds of all but two or three—the Rector had to listen with patience to much fault-finding with the sermon, and with its preacher.
The End.