MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR XXVii 
It was by no means wise to ‘let the Rector hear of” 
any underhand deed. 
Somehow, he seemed to fit an empty niche in 
Sproughton church ; and, to those who have seen him 
standing, lonely, by the altar—tall, upright and with 
snow-white hair waiting to bless his people, it has never 
seemed quite the same church again. The sun, 
shining through the stained-glass windows, still fills 
with roseate hues the space around the altar, but 
(and what eternal sadness it is that such things 
should ever be) the clear-cut face, the outstretched 
hands, as the voice, low, clear, undoubting, gives out 
the blessing are gone. 
His sermons were never very long, and they were 
always listened to with rapt attention. He thoroughly 
understood the art of ‘‘ making the punishment fit 
the crime ’”—in other words, his was an agricultural 
congregation, and he knew what they would under- 
stand. He would draw his conclusions by appeals 
to nature or agriculture—they knew all about it and 
could follow his reasoning. Once, indeed, a deputa- 
tion waited on him to make his sermons longer! 
He usually spoke for fifteen minutes. In connection 
with his sermons, there was a rather amusing 
occurrence one day. He was decidedly awe-inspir- 
ing in the pulpit, as well as out of it, and he had a 
way, when he was not looking atanything in particular, 
of having the appearance of staring hard at some 
very definite object. He had greyish eyes, and they 
looked stern when fixed hard on anything. On this 
occasion, he was explaining a portion of the Bible, 
and just down below and in front of him was a small 
boy with hair of the most brilliant red imagin- 
able. What he was trying to explain was something 
