s if the prospect
alarmed him; and Mr. Yorke laughed too, and saying, 'Well, then, look
out for me after service,' strode away across the grass, looking back,
however, at the vestry door, to see if Cecil were turning his steps
towards the church.

Cecil had not at all liked the idea of taking his place among the
congregation: he thought that those who noticed him would wonder why he
was not in the choir, and in his present mood the least humiliation was
intolerable to him. The two days which had intervened since his coming
home had not been well or happily spent: he had gone about in a sulky
injured way, keeping aloof from his father and mother, answering shortly
when spoken to, and being anything but sociable even with his brothers
and sisters. Some of them had almost ceased to be sorry for him, because
he made himself, as they said, 'so disagreeable;' but his faithful
friend Jessie had borne with him uncomplainingly, and continued to feel
for him with all her heart. He was a little cheered now by the thought
that Mr. Yorke felt for him too, and did not seem to condemn him
altogether; and so--rather slowly--he walked towards the church and went
in, and took a place near the door, where he thought scarcely anybody
would see him.

His thoughts wandered far and wide during the prayers, though now and
then he recalled them by an effort, and tried to attend for at least a
few minutes; but he could not help listening to the sermon, which was
preached by his father--his father, whom at the bottom of his heart he
did warmly love and respect, spite of all the rebellious feelings of the
last day or two. The text was, 'While I live will I praise the Lord: I
will sing praises unto my God while I have any being;' and there
followed a beautiful, fervent exhortation to the spirit of constant
praise, and then a consideration of the hindrances which check this flow
of thankfulness in Christian souls. Cecil listened most attentively, and
with a kind of awe, when among these was named the pride of heart which
would not acknowledge as deserved such punishment as God might send,
either directly from Himself or through others--the temper which called
it 'very hard' that this or that suffering should be laid upon us. He
did not suppose that his father was thinking of him--nor was he; but in
the vivid description of feelings which followed he recognised his own,
and a strange thrill of heart seized him when Mr. Cunningham went on:
'There is