The service went on.  At last Mr. Granger mounted the pulpit and began to read his sermon, of which the text was, “But the greatest of these is charity.”  Geoffrey noticed that he bungled over some of the words, then suddenly remembered Beatrice had told him that she had written the sermon, and was all attention.  He was not disappointed.  Notwithstanding Mr. Granger’s infamous reading, and his habit of dropping his voice at the end of a sentence, instead of raising it, the beauty of the thoughts and diction was very evident.  It was indeed a discourse that might equally well have been delivered in a Mahomedan or a Buddhist place of worship; there was nothing distinctively Christian about it, it merely appealed to the good in human nature.  But of this neither the preacher nor his audience seemed to be aware, indeed, few of the latter were listening at all.  The sermon was short and ended with a passage of real power and beauty—­or rather it did not end, for, closing the MS. sheets, Mr. Granger followed on with a few impromptu remarks of his own.

“And now, brethren,” he said, “I have been preaching to you about charity, but I wish to add one remark, Charity begins at home.  There is about a hundred pounds of tithe owing to me, and some of it has been owing for two years and more.  If that tithe is not paid I shall have to put distraint on some of you, and I thought that I had better take this opportunity to tell you so.”

Then he gave the Benediction.

The contrast between this business-like speech, and the beautiful periods which had gone before, was so ridiculous that Geoffrey very nearly burst out laughing, and Beatrice smiled.  So did the rest of the congregation, excepting one or two who owed tithe, and Owen Davies, who was thinking of other things.

As they went through the churchyard, Geoffrey noticed something.  Beatrice was a few paces ahead holding Effie’s hand.  Presently Mr. Davies passed him, apparently without seeing him, and greeted Beatrice, who bowed slightly in acknowledgment.  He walked a little way without speaking, then Geoffrey, just as they reached the church gate, heard him say, “At four this afternoon, then.”  Again she bowed her head, and he turned and went.  As for Geoffrey, he wondered what it all meant:  was she engaged to him, or was she not?

Dinner was a somewhat silent meal.  Mr. Granger was thinking about his tithe, also about a sick cow.  Elizabeth’s thoughts pursued some dark and devious course of their own, not an altogether agreeable one to judge from her face.  Beatrice looked pale and worried; even Effie’s sallies did not do more than make her smile.  As for Geoffrey himself, he was engaged in wondering in an idle sort of way what was going to happen at four o’clock.

“You is all very dull,” said Effie at last, with a charming disregard of grammar.

“People ought to be dull on Sunday, Effie,” answered Beatrice, with an effort.  “At least, I suppose so,” she added.