God-he said-wished men to be fruitful, intended them to be fruitful, commanded them to be fruitful.  God—­he said—­made men, and made the earth; He made man to be fruitful in the earth; He made man neither to question nor answer nor argue; He made him to be fruitful and possess the land.  As they had heard in that beautiful Lesson this morning, God had set bounds, the bounds of marriage, within which man should multiply; within those bounds it was his duty to multiply, and that exceedingly—­even as Abraham multiplied.  In these days dangers, pitfalls, snares, were rife; in these days men went about and openly, unashamedly advocated shameful doctrines.  Let them beware.  It would be his sacred duty to exclude such men from within the precincts of that parish entrusted to his care by God.  In the language of their greatest poet, “Such men were dangerous”—­dangerous to Christianity, dangerous to their country, and to national life.  They were not brought into this world to follow sinful inclination, to obey their mortal reason.  God demanded sacrifices of men.  Patriotism demanded sacrifices of men, it demanded that they should curb their inclinations and desires.  It demanded of them their first duty as men and Christians, the duty of being fruitful and multiplying, in order that they might till this fruitful earth, not selfishly, not for themselves alone.  It demanded of them the duty of multiplying in order that they and their children might be equipped to smite the enemies of their Queen and country, and uphold the name of England in whatever quarrel, against all who rashly sought to drag her flag in the dust.

The Squire opened his eyes and looked at his watch.  Folding his arms, he coughed, for he was thinking of the chaff-cutter.  Beside him Mrs. Pendyce, with her eyes on the altar, smiled as if in sleep.  She was thinking, ’Skyward’s in Bond Street used to have lovely lace.  Perhaps in the spring I could——­Or there was Goblin’s, their Point de Venise——­’

Behind them, four rows back, an aged cottage woman, as upright as a girl, sat with a rapt expression on her carved old face.  She never moved, her eyes seemed drinking in the movements of the Rector’s lips, her whole being seemed hanging on his words.  It is true her dim eyes saw nothing but a blur, her poor deaf ears could not hear one word, but she sat at the angle she was used to, and thought of nothing at all.  And perhaps it was better so, for she was near her end.

Outside the churchyard, in the sun-warmed grass, the fox-terriers lay one against the other, pretending to shiver, with their small bright eyes fixed on the church door, and the rubbery nostrils of the spaniel John worked ever busily beneath the wicket gate.

CHAPTER VIII

GREGORY VIGIL PROPOSES