“I only hope I’m right, sir. It was just this: their heads was full of their dinner because they didn’t know where it was to come from. But they ought to ha’ known where it always come from. If their hearts had been full of the dinner He gave the five thousand hungry men and women and children, they wouldn’t have been uncomfortable about not having a loaf. And so they wouldn’t have been set upon the wrong tack when He spoke about the leaven of the Pharisees and Sadducees; and they would have known in a moment what He meant. And if I hadn’t been too much of the same sort, I wouldn’t have started saying it was but reasonable to be in the doldrums because they were at sea with no biscuit in the locker.” “You’re right; you must be right, old Rogers. It’s as plain as possible,” I cried, rejoiced at the old man’s insight. “Thank you. I’ll preach about it to-morrow. I thought I had got my sermon in Foxborough Wood, but I was mistaken: you had got it.” But I was mistaken again. I had not got my sermon yet. I walked with him to his cottage and left him, after a greeting with the “old woman.” Passing then through the village, and seeing by the light of her candle the form of Catherine Weir behind her counter, I went in. I thought old Rogers’s tobacco must be nearly gone, and I might safely buy some more. Catherine’s manner was much the same as usual. But as she was weighing my purchase, she broke out all at once: “It’s no use your preaching at me, Mr Walton. I cannot, I WILL not forgive. I will do anything BUT forgive. And it’s no use.” “It is not I that say it, Catherine. It is the Lord himself.” I saw no great use in protesting my innocence, yet I thought it better to add— “And I was not preaching AT you. I was preaching to you, as much as to any one there, and no more.” Of this she took no notice, and I resumed: “Just think of what HE says; not what I say.” “I can’t help it. If He won’t forgive me, I must go without it. I can’t forgive.” I saw that good and evil were fighting in her, and felt that no words of mine could be of further avail at the moment. The words of our Lord had laid hold of her; that was enough for this time. Nor dared I ask her any questions. I had the feeling that it would hurt, not help. All I could venture to say, was: “I won’t trouble you with talk, Catherine. Our Lord wants to talk to you. It is not for me to interfere. But please to remember, if ever you think I can serve you in any way, you have only to send for me.” She murmured a mechanical thanks, and handed me my parcel. I paid for it, bade her good night, and left the shop. “O Lord,” I said in my heart, as I walked away, “what a labour Thou hast with us all! Shall we ever, some day, be all, and quite, good like Thee? Help me. Fill me with Thy light, that my work may all go to bring about the gladness of Thy kingdom—the holy household of us brothers and sisters—all Thy children.”