It is rather an ordeal to hear one's brother preach his first sermon, particularly if he is a younger brother, and one has more solicitude for his success, than confidence in it. Missy's heart beat furiously while he said the prayers--she very much wished he hadn't come to Yellowcoats. His voice soothed her; there was no indication in it that his heart was beating with irregularity. But then would dart in the thought of the coming sermon, and the trepidation would return. There was one thing to be thankful for, and that was, that mamma was not there. And when the sermon came, she scarcely heard the text; it was several minutes before she heard anything. By and by she got steadied by something in his voice and manner, not probably in the words. And after that, she renounced solicitude and assumed confidence. Yes, she need not be afraid for St. John. Though there was nothing wonderful in the sermon. The congregation had heard many a better, probably. But while it was simple, it was not trite. It was thought out, and definite, and well-expressed. The Rev. Dr. Platitude would have made three out of it, and thought himself extravagant. But what was it that held the people so silent, that made them follow him so? For Missy would have heard a leaf turned six pews off; would have felt it through and through her if a distant neighbor had even buttoned up her glove. No; nobody was turning pages, or buttoning gloves, or thinking of spring bonnets. St. John had them in his hand; they were his while he chose to hold them. There was an utter simplicity about him; an absence of speculation about himself. Missy looked at him and wondered if it were indeed her brother. There was a deep light in his eyes, that one sometimes sees in blue eyes; there was a faint flush on his cheek; there was a steady look about his mouth. It began to dawn on Missy that he was going to be one of those men who are to preach from their hearts as well as from their brains; who are to bring out from their own soul's labor, food for the hungry souls about them. She began to feel that St. John's sermon had come somehow from the weary Lent that was just ended; from the hard pressure of the past eighteen months; from the cruel wound that had seemed to find his very life. But what were the people crying about? Heaven knows. For they had heard many sermons before, and been like the pebbles on the shore for hardness and rattling indifference. And they did cry, though St. John did not; but his eyes were deep and earnest. "Mamma," exclaimed Missy, throwing herself down by her mother's sofa, and hiding her face on her shoulder--"it was like Paradise--all the people cried." "I didn't suppose they did that in Paradise." "Oh, you know what I mean. It was like Paradise to me to see them cry. At any rate, you needn't have any fear about St. John." "I never had any fear of him, that way," said the mother, quietly. CHAPTER IV. THE PEOPLE NEXT DOOR.