The Canon’s sermon did not maintain this high-strung mood, though why not it would be difficult to say.  Like all his, it was eloquent, brilliant even, declaimed by a fine voice of wide compass, whose varying tones he used with the skill of a practised orator.  The text was “Our conversation is in Heaven,” its theme the contrast between the man of this world, with his heart fixed upon its pomps, its vanities, its honours, and the believer indifferent to all these, esteeming them as dross merely compared to the heavenly treasure, the one thing needful.  Certainly the utter worthlessness of the prizes for which men labour and so late take rest, barter their happiness, their peace, their honour, was never more scathingly depicted.  I remember the organ-like bass of his note in passages which denounced the grovelling worship of earthly pre-eminence and riches, the clarion-like cry with which he concluded a stirring eulogy of the Christian’s nobler service of things unseen.

“Brethren, as His kingdom is not of this world, so too our kingdom is not of this world.”

“I think you will admit, George,” said Lady Atherley, as we left the church, “that you have had a good sermon to-day.”

“Yes, indeed,” heartily assented Atherley.  “It was excellent.  Your uncle certainly knows his business, which is more than can be said of most preachers.  It was a really splendid performance.  But who on earth was he talking about—­those wonderful people who don’t care for money or success, or the best of everything generally?  I never met any like them.”

“My dear George!  How extraordinary you are!  Any one could see, I should have thought, that he meant Christians.”

Atherley and the children walked home while we waited for the Canon, who stayed behind to exchange a few words in the vestry with his old schoolfellow, Mr. Jackson.

As we drove home he made, aloud, some reflections, probably suggested by the difference between their positions.

“It really grieves me to see Jackson where he is at his age.  He deserves a better living.  He is an excellent fellow, and not without ability, but wanting, unfortunately, in tact and savoir-faire.  He always had an unhappy knack of blurting out the truth in season and out of season.  I did my best to get him a good living once—­a first-rate living—­in Sir John Marsh’s gift; and I warned him before he went to lunch with Sir John to be careful what he said.  ‘Sir John,’ I said, ’is one of the old school; he thinks the Squire is pope of the parish, and you will have to humour him a little.  He will talk a great deal of nonsense in this strain, and be careful not to contradict him, for he can’t bear it.’  But Jackson did contradict him—­flatly; he told me so himself, and, of course, Sir John would have nothing to say to him.  ’But he made such extravagant statements,’ said Jackson.  ’If I had kept quiet he would have thought I agreed with him.’—­’What did that matter?’ I said.  ’Once you were vicar you could have shown him you didn’t.’—­’The truth is,’ said Jackson, ’I cannot sit by and hear black called white without protesting.’  That is Jackson all over!  A man of that kind will never get on.  And then, such an imprudent marriage—­a woman without a penny!”