It was a gloomy Sunday in the gloomiest part of the year, when the fog hung over London day and night, only lifting itself off a little for two or three hours about noon time. The bells which rang from the church towers might have been chiming from some region above the clouds, so distant they sounded and so hidden were the belfries in which they hung.

In the early part of the day the congregations went to and from their various places of worship with a feeling of sombre depression at the long continuance of the gloom; but after nightfall the darkness was only natural, and though the lamps gave but little light, and shone merely like yellow balls in the fog, the passengers in the street moved more briskly and talked more cheerfully than in the morning. Here and there the brilliantly illuminated windows of some church or chapel cast a pleasant gleam upon the pavement, and the open doors seemed to invite any cold or weary passer-by to enter into its light and warmth; but as if these buildings, the temples of God, were designed only for the rich, and for those who had comfort enough in their own dwellings, it was noticeable that but a very scanty sprinkling of worshippers dressed in vile raiment were to be seen among the congregations, though there was no lack of those who wore goodly apparel and gay clothing.

The fashionable chapel of which Daniel Standring was the chapel-keeper was no exception to the general rule, for there were no poor to be found in it. There was within it every appliance of comfort and style such as could give satisfaction to a wealthy congregation. The oak pews were high enough for the head of an occasional slumberer to repose in quiet indulgence, and they were well lined and carpeted and cushioned. The shades for the lamps toned down their light to a clear yet soft lustre, and the apparatus for heating the building was of the most efficient kind.

The crowds who flocked to hear the minister were increasing every Sunday, and Daniel Standring had, with some reluctance, yielded to the necessity of sharing his office of pew-opener with a colleague; a man, however, of less dignity and solemnity of deportment than himself, and who was quite willing to look up to him as a superior. Moreover, the old members of the church, the “carriage people” especially, recognized him only as their chapel-keeper, and entrusted any message or any commission to him alone; and he also retained the charge of attending upon the vestry. The other man was no more than a subordinate; and after a while he was reconciled to this division of the office.

There had been two things much talked about among the people for some time past: the first, that the minister himself should have a colleague found for him, and the second, that a large and still more fashionable chapel should be built.

As to the colleague there were several difficulties in the way, the chief one being to find such a preacher as would attract the same congregations as those which came in crowds to listen to the minister; for it was found that whenever it was known that he would be absent from his pulpit the numbers dwindled away, until during his yearly holiday the chapel would seem almost empty, compared to the throng of curious and eager listeners who hung upon his words, and scarcely dared to sigh over his representations of their misery and peril lest they should miss hearing a single syllable of the eloquence which described it.

Still every member of the congregation said it was essential that a colleague should be found for their beloved pastor before he had quite worn himself out; and great blame was thrown back upon the small provincial church which five-and-twenty years ago had thrust him, a mere youth of twenty, upon the exhausting duties of the ministry. As for the second subject, it was settled without much difficulty, for only money, not a man, was wanted; and upon the vestry table there was a subscription-list already promising some thousands of pounds, and beside it lay the plans for the new chapel, drawn up by an eminent architect.

The chapel doors had been opened by Daniel, and the gas toned down to precisely the brilliance and softness which the congregation loved, especially the lamps on each side of the pulpit, which shed a revealing light upon the minister’s thoughtful face and upon his dark hair just tinged with grey. In the vestry Jessica had just given a final and delicate stroke of dusting, and was wiping the large pulpit Bible and hymn-book with her clean pocket-handkerchief ready for Daniel to carry up into the pulpit while the organist was playing the opening voluntary, which he did with so solemn and ministerial an aspect that a stranger, not accustomed to the etiquette of the place, might be betrayed into the supposition that he was the minister himself.

Daniel was waiting now in the porch like some faithful steward ready to receive his master’s guests; and as carriage after carriage rolled up almost a smile of satisfaction softened his rigid features. The minister’s children had passed him with a smile and a nod, and he had shut the door of their pew in the corner, so he knew the minister was come, and putting a little additional briskness in his manner he looked out for seats for the strangers who were filling the aisles, at the same time listening for the first notes of the organ.

The minister had entered the vestry just as Jessica had finished wiping the imaginary dust off the Bible and hymn-book, and he drew his chair up close to the fire, as if coming through the fog had chilled him. He looked sad and downcast, and his head sank forward upon his breast. For a minute Jessica stood behind his chair in silence, and then she stretched out her hand, a small thin hand still, and laid it timidly upon his arm.

“Jessica,” said the minister, covering her small palm with his scholarly hand, “I am sorrowful to-night, and I have great heaviness of heart. Tell me, my child, do you understand what I preach about in my pulpit?”

“Oh, no, no!” answered Jessica, shaking her head deprecatingly, “only when you say God, and Jesus Christ, and heaven! I know what you mean by them.”

“Do you?” said the minister, with a very tender smile; “and do I say them often, Jessica?”

“Sometimes they come over and over again,” replied Jessica, “and then I feel very glad, because I know what you are preaching about. There is always God in your sermon, but sometimes there isn’t Jesus Christ and heaven.”

“And what do I mean by God, and Jesus Christ, and heaven?” he asked.

“I don’t know anything but what you’ve taught me,” said Jessica, folding her brown hands meekly over one another; “you’ve told me that God is the Father of our souls, and Jesus Christ is our elder brother, who came down from heaven to save us, and heaven is the home of God, where we shall all go if we love and serve him. I don’t know any more than that.”

“It is enough!” said the minister, lifting up his head with a brighter look; “one soul has learned the truth from me. God bless you, Jessica, and keep you in his fear and love for evermore.”

As he spoke the deep tones of the organ fell upon their ears, and the vestry door was opened by Daniel, coming for the pulpit books. There was an air of solemn pride upon his face, and he bowed lower than usual to his minister.

“There’s a vast crush of people to-night, sir,” he said; “the aisles and the galleries are all full, and there’s a many standing at the door yet who will have to go away, for there’s no room for them.”

The minister covered his face with his hands and shivered, with the cold no doubt; and Daniel and Jessica were leaving the vestry when they were called back by his voice speaking in husky and agitated tones.

“Standring,” he said, “I have something of importance to say to you after the service this evening, so come back here as soon as the congregation is gone. And, Jessica, take care to sit in your own place, where I can see you; for I will preach about Jesus Christ and heaven to-night.”

Jessica answered only by a little nod, and left the vestry by a door which did not open into the chapel. In a minute or two afterwards she was making her way up the crowded aisles to her usual seat at the foot of the pulpit steps, where, with her head thrown back, her face lifted itself up to the minister’s gaze.

She had just time to settle herself and glance at the minister’s children, who were looking out for her, when the last quiet notes of the organ ceased, and the vestry door opened. The minister mounted the stairs slowly, and with his head bent down, but as soon as he was in the pulpit he looked round upon the faces whose eyes were all fastened upon him.

Many of the faces he knew, and had seen thus upraised to him for scores of Sundays, and his eyes passed from one to another swiftly, but with a distinguishing regard of which he had never been conscious before, and their names swept across his memory like sudden flashes of light. There sat his own children, and his eyes rested fondly upon them as they looked up to him; and he smiled tenderly to himself as his glance caught the flushed and fervent face of Jessica.

The sermon he had prepared during the week was one of great research and of studied oratory, which should hold his hearers in strained and breathless attention; but as he bowed down his head in silent supplication for the blessing of God he said to himself, “I will preach to this people from the saying of Christ, ‘He calleth His own sheep by name, and leadeth them out.’”