Wesley Elliot in his study upstairs—­a makeshift of a study—­sat munching hot doughnuts and reflecting.  He had only about one-third of his sermon written and it was Saturday, but that did not disturb him.  He had a quick-moving mind.  He sometimes wondered whether it did not move too quickly.  Wesley was not a conceited man in one sense.  He never had doubt of his power, but he had grave doubts of the merits of his productions.  However, today he was glad of the high rate of speed of which he was capable, and did not worry as much as he sometimes did about his landing at the exact goal.  He knew very well that he could finish his sermon, easily, eat his doughnuts, and sit reflecting as long as he chose.  He chose to do so for a long time, although his reflections were not particularly happy ones.  When he had left the theological seminary a year ago, he had had his life planned out so exactly that it did not seem possible to him that the plans could fail.  He had graduated at the head of his class.  He had had no doubt of a city church.  One of the professors, a rich man with much influence, had practically promised him one.  Wesley went home to his doting mother, and told her the news.  Wesley’s mother believed in much more than the city church.  She believed her son to be capable of anything.  “I shall have a large salary, mother,” boasted Wesley, “and you shall have the best clothes money can buy, and the parsonage is sure to be beautiful.”

“How will your old mother look in fine feathers, in such a beautiful home?” asked Wesley’s mother, but she asked as a lovely, much-petted woman asks such a question.  She had her little conscious smile all ready for the rejoinder which she knew her son would not fail to give.  He was very proud of his mother.

“Why, mother,” he said, “as far as that goes, I wouldn’t balk at a throne for you as queen dowager.”

“You are a silly boy,” said Mrs. Elliot, but she stole a glance at herself in an opposite mirror, and smiled complacently.  She did not look old enough to be the mother of her son.  She was tall and slender, and fair-haired, and she knew how to dress well on her very small income.  She was rosy, and carried herself with a sweet serenity.  People said Wesley would not need a wife as long as he had such a mother.  But he did not have her long.  Only a month later she died, and while the boy was still striving to play the role of hero in that calamity, there came news of another.  His professor friend had a son in the trenches.  The son had been wounded, and the father had obeyed a hurried call, found his son dead, and himself died of the shock on the return voyage.  Wesley, mourning the man who had been his stanch friend, was guiltily conscious of his thwarted ambition.  “There goes my city church,” he thought, and flung the thought back at himself in anger at his own self-seeking.  He was forced into accepting the first opportunity which offered.  His mother had an annuity, which he himself had insisted upon for her greater comfort.  When she died, the son was nearly penniless, except for the house, which was old and in need of repair.