tion anywhere, but I never want to hear another such sermon. I do not believe it could do good. People do not want to be thrilled on Sunday. They need to be comforted and taught to hope for the best. As his last words were uttered, and the congregation, which had listened breathlessly, eagerly, to every word, watched the speaker descend from his pulpit, I looked for the first time since the beginning of the discourse at my husband.
His face was as white as death. His eyes, widely open, were staring fixedly at the pulpit, which was now empty, as though he expected further utterances. His hands hung limp and nerveless at his side.
I touched his arm. He started violently, and turned a face from which every expression of good-fellowship, trust and hope seemed to have fled.
"Arthur," I said, seriously alarmed, "what is the matter? Are you ill? Don't—don't look at me like that."
He tried to smile.
"I wonder if he has delivered that lecture before," he said huskily.
