It is so delightful to feel one’s self the providence of one’s neighbours. Poor Mrs. Dulcimer’s mind was distracted during the rest of the service. This notion about Cyril was one of those splendid ideas which take hold of the female mind with over-mastering power, like a brilliant scheme for turning a silk dress, or making up last year’s exploded bonnet into the latest fashionable shape for this year. Vainly did the busy soul try to pin her mind to the Prayer-book. She could not get her thoughts away from the suitability of a match between Cyril and Bella. There was a remarkable fitness about it. Neither of them had any money of their own. That made it so nice. They couldn’t feel under any obligation to each other. Cyril would, of course, get on well in the church. People always did who were as earnest and well connected as Cyril Culverhouse. And then what an admirable wife Bella would make for a poor man--a girl who had been brought up to pinch, and contrive, and deny herself, and make sixpence do the work of a shilling! It never occurred to Mrs. Dulcimer that this long apprenticeship to self-denial might have induced in Bella a craving for the good things of this life, and an ardent desire for the opportunity of self-indulgence. By the time Cyril went up into the pulpit to preach his sermon, Mrs. Dulcimer had married him to Isabella, and settled them in a modest but comfortable living, with the prettiest and most rustic of vicarages, where the housemaid’s pantry would afford ample scope for Isabella’s domestic talents, while the ignorance of an agricultural parish would give full play to Cyril’s energy and earnestness. Cyril Culverhouse preached an admirable sermon. He had that gift of clear and concise language, short sentences, bold and distinct expression, appropriate metaphor, and strong colouring, which makes certain books in the English language stand out from all other writing with a force and power that command the admiration alike of the cultured and uncultured reader. He had not the subtlety, finesse, and erudition of his Vicar, who preached for the most part to please his own fancy, and very often over the heads of his congregation. Cyril’s earnestness made every sermon an exhortation, a call to repentance and holy living. It was hardly possible to hear him and not be moved by him. It would have been sheer stony-heartedness in his hearers to sit there and listen to him and make no resolve to live better, and be touched by no pang of compunction for past errors. Beatrix listened with all her soul in her eyes. Once and once only Cyril’s large gaze, sweeping the mass of faces, caught that upward look of the dark eyes. It seemed to him to take away his breath for a moment, and checked the progress of a vigorous peroration. He faltered, substituted a word, recovered himself in an instant, and went on; and no one knew how that one little look had moved him.