On the next Sunday but one—which was surprising to me when I considered the manner of our last parting—Catherine Weir was in church, for the second time since I had come to the place. As it happened, only as Spenser says— “It chanced—eternal God that chance did guide,” —and why I say this, will appear afterwards—I had, in preaching upon, that is, in endeavouring to enforce the Lord’s Prayer by making them think about the meaning of the words they were so familiar with, come to the petition, “Forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors;” with which I naturally connected the words of our Lord that follow: “For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you; but if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.” I need not tell my reader more of what I said about this, than that I tried to show that even were it possible with God to forgive an unforgiving man, the man himself would not be able to believe for a moment that God did forgive him, and therefore could get no comfort or help or joy of any kind from the forgiveness; so essentially does hatred, or revenge, or contempt, or anything that separates us from man, separate us from God too. To the loving soul alone does the Father reveal Himself; for love alone can understand Him. It is the peace-makers who are His children. This I said, thinking of no one more than another of my audience. But as I closed my sermon, I could not help fancying that Mrs Oldcastle looked at me with more than her usual fierceness. I forgot all about it, however, for I never seemed to myself to have any hold of, or relation to, that woman. I know I was wrong in being unable to feel my relation to her because I disliked her. But not till years after did I begin to understand how she felt, or recognize in myself a common humanity with her. A sin of my own made me understand her condition. I can hardly explain now; I will tell it when the time comes. When I called upon her next, after the interview last related, she behaved much as if she had forgotten all about it, which was not likely. In the end of the week after the sermon to which I have alluded, I was passing the Hall-gate on my usual Saturday’s walk, when Judy saw me from within, as she came out of the lodge. She was with me in a moment. “Mr Walton,” she said, “how could you preach at Grannie as you did last Sunday?” “I did not preach at anybody, Judy.” “Oh, Mr Walton!” “You know I didn’t, Judy. You know that if I had, I would not say I had not.” “Yes, yes; I know that perfectly,” she said, seriously. “But Grannie thinks you did.” “How do you know that?” “By her face.” “That is all, is it?” “You don’t think Grannie would say so?” “No. Nor yet that you could know by her face what she was thinking.”