But these thoughts and speculations were suppressed, if not banished, by the pleasant routine of the rural morning and the going to morning church. Henry found himself searching anxiously with his eyes for Eunice Lyndon, and he was disappointed not to see her there. She was absent owing to household duties, and a pressing visit to be made to a sick member of Mr. Needham's flock. At the close of the service the vicar announced that his farewell sermon would be delivered in the evening, and extended a fatherly invitation to his parishioners to come and hear his last words to them. When the clang of the evening bell shook the drowsy air of the village, it evoked an unusual response. Many a wheezing veteran and worn old woman toiled their way up the hill. Never before was the little church so full as on that peaceful autumn evening. The entire Charles family was present, Henry sitting next to his mother; and as he looked round upon that homely congregation, nearly every face in which was familiar to him, the emotions of his boyhood stirred within him again, and he felt as if all he had passed through since then was as a troubled dream. The slanting rays of the setting sun streamed through the western windows as Mr. Needham slowly mounted the pulpit. Every eye was raised to him as he stood there with his open Bible in his hand. What would he say? What would be his last words to them? They were these: "I have fought the good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith: henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness." In coughless silence, with those listening eyes fixed upon him, the vicar began his discourse, making a brave attempt to preserve his outward calm. He dwelt upon the career of St. Paul; followed him in his wanderings, his perils of waters, his perils in the wilderness, and many trials and sufferings through which he had passed. And now, in a dungeon at Rome, with a cruel death awaiting him, as he looked back on it all the triumphant note broke from him: "I have fought the good fight." From that the vicar turned to the career of another: a great poet, one who had all the world could offer, and who had drunk so deeply of the pleasures of life that his soul was satiated with them--Lord Byron. And when at the last, a stranger in a strange land, away from friends and kindred, he took up his pen to write, the last words which he gave to the world were these: "My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone!" The vicar paused; and then, with simple, touching earnestness, added: "Which, my brethren will be yours at the last--'the worm, the canker, and the grief,' or the crown of righteousness that fadeth not away?"