After an introductory prayer, he read his text in a clear and composed voice, after which he began a short and clear explanation of the passage.  It was only in the last part of the sermon that he really intended to go into more personal matters, and the nearer he approached them the less confidence he seemed to feel.  When he had begun his sermon, he had fixed his eyes on a certain point, which he sought every time he lifted his eyes from his notes; and this point, although he had not remarked it at first, was Dean Sparre’s head.  The snowy hair and the white collar stood out in the sharpest contrast against the dark background, and the more the speaker gazed at this noble face, the more he seemed to dread the conclusion.  He was already close upon the point where he was first to begin to speak about sincerity, and the necessity of a perfectly truthful existence, and although he could not exactly tell the reason, he could not but feel that the stirring discourse he had set himself to deliver, was but little in keeping with that bright and peaceful smile, and with that commanding countenance so full of earnestness and harmony.

His head seemed to go round, and not another word could he utter.  There was a deathlike stillness in the church, as he wiped his brow with his handkerchief.

But when he again raised his head, he made an effort, and, looking beyond the dean in his need, he sought her who was really the cause of his standing where he did.  He was not disappointed, for the moment his eyes met the calm and determined face, a change seemed to come over him.  Her eye rested upon him with an inquiring and almost anxious expression, which he well understood.

She should not be disappointed of her trust in him, and with renewed strength, and without a tremor in his voice, he began upon the last part of his discourse.  Ever higher and fuller rang his voice, until its sonorous tone filled the church, and was re-echoed from the vaulted roof.  The congregation followed him with attention, while some of the old women were moved to tears.  And now a sensation of uneasiness seemed to pass through those who composed the great assembly.  It was indeed an extraordinary sermon, with its earnest entreaties to be thoroughly upright and sincere, and with its reckless condemnation of all forms and ceremonies, all of which were but of secondary consideration.  It seemed too bold, too exaggerated.

He seemed anxious to confess his sceptical opinions, in holding which he did not stand alone.  He was only alone in confessing them.  He knew only too well that fine web of soothing compromise, with which people were in the habit of deadening their consciences.  He knew it still better, too, from his own point of view as a clergyman, who even more than others was bound to live in the full glare of truth, even though he might be despised, hated, and persecuted by an unreasoning world.  If he followed the beaten track, whither would it lead?  To a position of