Presently the vicar ascended the pulpit, and in his usual monotonous under-tone proceeded with his usual platitudes. A worthy man this, but misty, and perhaps his brain was mercifully clouded. It made his daily life more bearable, his scolding eager wife more endurable, and, taking all things into consideration, it was well for the Rev. James that he was not a clever nor keen-eyed man. His congregation, who expected nothing new from him, each settled him or herself to their private thoughts. The men, as a rule, mentally did their weekly accounts over, the women the cost of their neighbor's dress and their own proposed new personal adornments. John Temple moved his seat to a convenient corner, whispering smilingly to his aunt-in-law as he passed her: "It is true, I am actually going to sleep." Mrs. Temple smiled in return, and looked at John as he closed his eyes and leaned back his head against the curtained pew. But though he closed his eyes he did not go to sleep, nor had the slightest inclination to do so. Through those closed lids he still mentally saw the lovely face in the gallery beyond; still saw the glad look with which the Mayflower had greeted his return. Mrs. Temple noticed his face flush, though he never opened his eyes. She kept looking at him and wondering what his life had been before her own terrible loss had made him the heir of Woodlea. She had expected to dislike him, almost to hate him, but she did not. His good looks favorably influenced her for one thing, and his pleasant, sympathetic manner for another. There is really no such lasting charm as this. But it is born with the man or woman who possesses it. It is the reflection from their hearts as it were; the outcome of the inner sense that understands the feelings of others and never wounds them. John Temple possessed this gift, to some extent at least, though not in the highest sense. But at all events he never said unsuitable things, nor hit the wrong nail on the head. Some people seemingly can not help doing this. With the best intentions they ruffle our tempers, and we are glad when they go out of our sight. So Mrs. Temple kept looking at John, and speculating as to his past. "He is good-looking, but scarcely handsome," she thought, and then she sighed, and her memory went back to the days of her soldier-lover, now lying in his Indian grave. "If I had married George Hill, I would have been a good woman," she was thinking. "Now what have I to be good for?" She glanced contemptuously, as the thought struck her first, at her poor misty father in the pulpit, and then at her eager, watchful mother in the vicar's pew below. "They sold me," she was reflecting, "and what I can give them is all they care for. Ah, it is a weary world."