“Yes, Jennie,” said I.  “If I thought Father Hyacinthe were right, I should turn Roman Catholic.  And Mr. Work this morning confirmed him.  He took away the substance.  He left us only a type, a shadow.”

The sermon was on the words—­“Do this in remembrance of me.”  It was a doctrinal sermon.  I am not sure that it might not have been a useful one—­in the sixteenth century.  It was a sermon against Romanism and Lutheranism and High Church episcopacy.  The minister told us what were the various doctrines of the communion.  He analyzed them and dismissed them one after another.  He showed very conclusively, to us Protestants, that the Romanists are wrong, to us Presbyterians that the Episcopalians are wrong, to us who are open Communionists that the close Communionists are wrong.  As there does not happen to be either Romanist, Episcopalian, or close Communionist in our congregation, I cannot say how efficacious his arguments would have been if addressed to any one who was in previous doubt as to his conclusions.  Then he proceeded to expound what he termed the rational and Scriptural doctrine of communion.  It is, he told us, simply a memorial service.  It simply commemorates the past.  “As,” said he, “every year, the nation gathers to strew flowers upon the graves of its patriot soldiers, so this day the Christian Church gathers to strew with flowers of love and praise the grave of the Captain of our salvation.  As in the one act all differences are forgotten, and the nation is one in the sacred presence of death, so in the other, creeds and doctrines vanish, and the Church of Christ appears at the foot of Calvary as one in Christ Jesus.”

Mr. Wheaton asked me, as we came out of church, if the sermon was not a magnificent one.  I evaded the question.  I was obliged to confess to myself that it was unsatisfactory.  If I were obliged to choose between the Protestantism of Mr. Work and the Romanism of Father Hyacinthe, I am afraid I should choose the latter.

“But,” said Jennie, “Mr. Work’s sermon was not true Protestant doctrine, John.  There is a Real Presence in the communion.  Only it is in the heart, not in the head, in us, not in the symbols that we eat.  Did you not feel the Real Presence when Father Hyatt in the afternoon broke and blessed the bread?  Did you not see the living Christ in his radiant face and hear the living Christ in his touching words, and his more touching silence?”

Yes!  I did.  Father Hyatt had disproved the morning’s sermon, though he said never a word about it.

Father Hyatt is an old, old man.  He has long since retired from active service, having worn out his best days here at Wheathedge, in years now long gone by.  A little money left him by a parishioner, and a few annual gifts from old friends among his former people, are his means of support.  His hair is white as snow.  His hands are thin, his body bent, his voice weak, his eyesight dim, his ears but half