To-day he had risen at half-past six, and after his bath and exercises, had sat down to his sermon—­for, even now, he wrote a new sermon once a month, though he had the fruits of twenty-six years to choose from.  True, these new sermons were rather compiled than written, because, bereft of his curate, he had not time enough for fresh thought on old subjects.  At eight he had breakfasted with Noel, before she went off to her hospital, whence she would return at eight in the evening.  Nine to ten was his hour for seeing parishioners who had troubles, or wanted help or advice, and he had received three to-day who all wanted help, which he had given.  From ten to eleven he had gone back to his sermon, and had spent from eleven to one at his church, attending to small matters, writing notices, fixing hymns, holding the daily half-hour Service instituted during wartime, to which but few ever came.  He had hurried back to lunch, scamping it so that he might get to his piano for an hour of forgetfulness.  At three he had christened a very noisy baby, and been detained by its parents who wished for information on a variety of topics.  At half-past four he had snatched a cup of tea, reading the paper; and had spent from five to seven visiting two Parish Clubs, and those whose war-pension matters he had in hand, and filling up forms which would be kept in official places till such time as the system should be changed and a fresh set of forms issued.  From seven to eight he was at home again, in case his flock wanted to see him; to-day four sheep had come, and gone away, he was afraid, but little the wiser.  From half-past eight to half-past nine he had spent in choir practice, because the organist was on his holiday.  Slowly in the cool of the evening he had walked home, and fallen asleep in his chair on getting in.  At eleven he had woken with a start, and, hardening his heart, had gone back to his sermon.  And now, at nearly midnight, it was still less than twenty minutes long.  He lighted one of his rare cigarettes, and let thought wander.  How beautiful those pale pink roses were in that old silver bowl-like a little strange poem, or a piece of Debussy music, or a Mathieu Maris picture-reminding him oddly of the word Leila.  Was he wrong in letting Noel see so much of Leila?  But then she was so improved—­dear Leila!...  The pink roses were just going to fall!  And yet how beautiful!...  It was quiet to-night; he felt very drowsy....  Did Nollie still think of that young man, or had it passed?  She had never confided in him since!  After the war, it would be nice to take her to Italy, to all the little towns.  They would see the Assisi of St. Francis.  The Little Flowers of St. Francis.  The Little Flowers!...  His hand dropped, the cigarette went out.  He slept with his face in shadow.  Slowly into the silence of his sleep little sinister sounds intruded.  Short concussions, dragging him back out of that deep slumber.  He started up.  Noel was standing at the door, in a long coat.  She said in her calm voice: