This Advent sermon however was a masterpiece, and as Mr. Lorimer lovingly fingered the pages of his manuscript he told himself that it could not fail to make an impression upon the most hardened sinner.

A low knock at the door disturbed these pleasant thoughts and he frowned.  There was an unwritten law at the Vicarage that save for the most urgent of reasons he should never be interrupted at this hour.

Softly the door opened.  Humbly his wife peeped in.

“Are you very busy, Stephen?”

His frown melted away.  Here at least was one whose appreciation was never lacking.  “Well, my dear Adelaide, I think I may truthfully say that the stress of my business is fairly over.  You may come in.”

She crept in, mouse-like, and a distant burst of music wafted in with her, causing her to turn and quickly close the door.

“Have you finished your sermon, dear?  Can we have a little talk?” she asked him nervously.

He stretched out a large white hand to her without rising.  “Yes.  I do not think much remains to be said.  We have as it were regarded the matter from every point of view.  I do not think there will be many consciences unaroused when I have enunciated my final warning.”

“You have such a striking delivery,” murmured Mrs. Lorimer, clasping the firm white hand between both her own.

Mr. Lorimer’s eyes vanished in an unctuous smile.  “Thou idle flatterer!” he said.

“No, indeed, dear,” his wife protested.  “I think you are always impressive, especially at the end of your sermons.  That pause you make before you turn your face to the altar—­it seems to me so effective—­so, if one may say it, dramatic.”

“To what request is this the prelude?” enquired Mr. Lorimer, emerging from his smile.

She laughed a little nervous laugh.  Her thin face was flushed.  “Shall we sit by the fire, Stephen, as we used to that first happy winter—­do you remember?—­after we were married?”

“Dear me!” said Mr. Lorimer.  “This sounds like a plunge into sentiment.”

Nevertheless he rose with a tolerant twinkle and seated himself in the large easy-chair before the fire.  It was the only really comfortable chair in the room.  He kept it for his moments of reflection.

Mrs. Lorimer sat down at his feet on the fender-curb, her tiny hand still clinging to his.  “This is a real treat,” she said, laying her head against his knee with a gesture oddly girlish.  “It isn’t often, is it, that we have it all to ourselves?”

“What is it you have to say to me?” he enquired.

She drew his hand down gently over her shoulder, and held it against her cheek.  There fell a brief silence, then she said with a slight effort:  “Your idea of a mother’s help has worked wonderfully, Stephen.  As you know, I was averse to it at first but I am so glad you insisted.  Dear Avery is a greater comfort to me than I can possibly tell you.”