As the said picture was an excellent copy of one of Landseer’s stags, Felix and I were well pleased; but Peter averred that he would rather have the Madonna that looked like his Aunt Jane, and the Story Girl agreed that if his sermon was the best she would give him that.

“But who’s to be the judge?” I said, “and what kind of a sermon would you call the best?”

“The one that makes the most impression,” answered the Story Girl promptly.  “And we girls must be the judges, because there’s nobody else.  Now, who is to preach next Sunday?”

It was decided that I should lead off, and I lay awake for an extra hour that night thinking what text I should take for the following Sunday.  The next day I bought two sheets of foolscap from the schoolmaster, and after tea I betook myself to the granary, barred the door, and fell to writing my sermon.  I did not find it as easy a task as I had anticipated; but I pegged grimly away at it, and by dint of severe labour for two evenings I eventually got my four pages of foolscap filled, although I had to pad the subject-matter not a little with verses of quotable hymns.  I had decided to preach on missions, as being a topic more within my grasp than abstruse theological doctrines or evangelical discourses; and, mindful of the need of making an impression, I drew a harrowing picture of the miserable plight of the heathen who in their darkness bowed down to wood and stone.  Then I urged our responsibility concerning them, and meant to wind up by reciting, in a very solemn and earnest voice, the verse beginning, “Can we whose souls are lighted.”  When I had completed my sermon I went over it very carefully again and wrote with red ink—­Cecily made it for me out of an aniline dye—­the word “thump” wherever I deemed it advisable to chastise the pulpit.

I have that sermon still, all its red thumps unfaded, lying beside my dream book; but I am not going to inflict it on my readers.  I am not so proud of it as I once was.  I was really puffed up with earthly vanity over it at that time.  Felix, I thought, would be hard put to it to beat it.  As for Peter, I did not consider him a rival to be feared.  It was unsupposable that a hired boy, with little education and less experience of church-going, should be able to preach better than could I, in whose family there was a real minister.

The sermon written, the next thing was to learn it off by heart and then practise it, thumps included, until I was letter and gesture perfect.  I preached it over several times in the granary with only Paddy, sitting immovably on a puncheon, for audience.  Paddy stood the test fairly well.  At least, he made an adorable listener, save at such times as imaginary rats distracted his attention.

Mr. Marwood had at least three absorbed listeners the next Sunday morning.  Felix, Peter and I were all among the chiels who were taking mental notes on the art of preaching a sermon.  Not a motion, or glance, or intonation escaped us.  To be sure, none of us could remember the text when we got home; but we knew just how you should throw back your head and clutch the edge of the pulpit with both hands when you announced it.