THE FIRST SERMON.

"I think it's a mistake," St. John had said. "Half the congregation will think I ought to be playing marbles yet, and wearing knickerbockers. Besides, it isn't the kind of work I want."

Then his mother had admitted, that it would be a great happiness to have him with her; and Missy had presented to his conscience, in many forms, that place and surroundings were indications of duty. It was not for nothing that he had been born and brought up at Yellowcoats; that there he had family influence, and knowledge of the people with whom he was to deal. Was it not his home? Did he owe any other place as much? And was it nothing that a vacancy had occurred just as he was ready to come?

"All the same, I doubt if it is well," he said, and came; for he was young and not self-willed, and the kind of work he wanted had not come before him. He consented to come and try. "But remember, Missy, I do not promise you to stay."

Upon one thing he was firm, he would not live at home. The rectory was in tolerable order, and there he was to live, with one servant. He never would be happy unless he were uncomfortable, said his sister; nevertheless, she liked him better for it.

St. John was changed, very deeply changed, since that October night, a year and a half ago; but he had come to be again sweet-natured and natural, and they loved him more than ever at home. He had grown silent, and never got back his young looks again. He had thrown himself into his studies with great earnestness, and had worked, perhaps, more than was quite wise. Lent was just over, and his ordination; and he was naturally a little wan and weary from it; but after preaching that first sermon, there was a flush upon his cheek. The bishop had been there in the morning, and had preached; in the afternoon, he had had no one with him, and had taken all the duty. He was alone with his people, and was fairly launched. It had been well known that he was going to preach, and the church was very full. Perhaps speculation about the knickerbockers and the marbles had brought some. Perhaps affection and real interest in their young townsman had brought others. All the "denominations" were amply represented, and all the young women of the village who had smart spring bonnets, wore them, and came with their young men. In short, it was more like a funeral than an ordinary afternoon service; for a funeral in Yellowcoats was an improved occasion always. The church building was a very poor affair, shabby in detail as well as ungainly in plan, but it was well situated, in the midst of shade, with an old graveyard on one side, and the road that led to the door of the rectory, fifty feet back, on the other, and beyond some green grass and trees there were sheds for horses. The windows were of clear diamond-shaped glass, so that when the rattling old shades were rolled up, one saw lovely glimpses of the bay, and some green fields, and nearer, the delicate young green of the locust trees that stood thick in the inclosure. One could always look heaven-ward and sea-ward out of the windows of Yellowcoats church, and that was the only advantage it presented as a building.

Lent had come late that year; and the spring had come early. The air was soft and sweet, the verdure more advanced than is usual for the last of April. The earth was still sodden and wet, though the spring sun was shining warmly on it. The crocuses were peeping up about the stones of the foundation, and in the grass the Star of Bethlehem and the periwinkle were in blossom. The locusts, with their thin, high-up foliage, were just a faint green, their rough bark rusty from the winter's storms.

It is rather an ordeal to hear one's brother preach his first sermon, particularly if he is a younger brother, and one has more solicitude for his success, than confidence in it. Missy's heart beat furiously while he said the prayers—she very much wished he hadn't come to Yellowcoats. His voice soothed her; there was no indication in it that his heart was beating with irregularity. But then would dart in the thought of the coming sermon, and the trepidation would return. There was one thing to be thankful for, and that was, that mamma was not there. And when the sermon came, she scarcely heard the text; it was several minutes before she heard anything. By and by she got steadied by something in his voice and manner, not probably in the words. And after that, she renounced solicitude and assumed confidence. Yes, she need not be afraid for St. John. Though there was nothing wonderful in the sermon. The congregation had heard many a better, probably. But while it was simple, it was not trite. It was thought out, and definite, and well-expressed. The Rev. Dr. Platitude would have made three out of it, and thought himself extravagant. But what was it that held the people so silent, that made them follow him so? For Missy would have heard a leaf turned six pews off; would have felt it through and through her if a distant neighbor had even buttoned up her glove. No; nobody was turning pages, or buttoning gloves, or thinking of spring bonnets. St. John had them in his hand; they were his while he chose to hold them. There was an utter simplicity about him; an absence of speculation about himself. Missy looked at him and wondered if it were indeed her brother. There was a deep light in his eyes, that one sometimes sees in blue eyes; there was a faint flush on his cheek; there was a steady look about his mouth. It began to dawn on Missy that he was going to be one of those men who are to preach from their hearts as well as from their brains; who are to bring out from their own soul's labor, food for the hungry souls about them. She began to feel that St. John's sermon had come somehow from the weary Lent that was just ended; from the hard pressure of the past eighteen months; from the cruel wound that had seemed to find his very life. But what were the people crying about? Heaven knows. For they had heard many sermons before, and been like the pebbles on the shore for hardness and rattling indifference. And they did cry, though St. John did not; but his eyes were deep and earnest.

"Mamma," exclaimed Missy, throwing herself down by her mother's sofa, and hiding her face on her shoulder—"it was like Paradise—all the people cried."

"I didn't suppose they did that in Paradise."

"Oh, you know what I mean. It was like Paradise to me to see them cry. At any rate, you needn't have any fear about St. John."

"I never had any fear of him, that way," said the mother, quietly.