As they walked home, Mrs Marshal, addressing her husband in a tone of conjugal disapproval, said, with more force than delicacy, “The pulpit is not the place to give a man to wash his dirty linen in.” “Well, you see, my love,” answered her husband in a tone of apology, “people won’t submit to be told their duty by mere students, and just at present there seems nobody else to be had. There’s none in the market but old stagers and young colts--eh, Fred? But Mr Masquar is at least a man of experience.” “Of more than enough, perhaps,” suggested his wife. “And the young ones must have their chance, else how are they to learn? You should have given the principal a hint. It is a most desirable thing that Frederick should preach a little oftener.” “They have it in turn, and it wouldn’t do to favour one more than another.” “He could hand his guinea, or whatever they gave him, to the one whose turn it ought to have been, and that would set it all right.” At this point the silk-mercer, fearing that the dominie, as he called him, was silently disapproving, and willing therefore to change the subject, turned to him and said, “Why shouldn’t _you_ give us a sermon, Graham?” The schoolmaster laughed. “Did you never hear,” he said, “how I fell like Dagon on the threshold of the church, and have lain there ever since.” “What has that to do with it?” returned his friend, sorry that his forgetfulness should have caused a painful recollection. “That is ages ago, when you were little more than a boy. Seriously,” he added, chiefly to cover his little indiscretion, “will you preach for us the Sunday after next?” Deacons generally ask a man to preach _for_ them. “No,” said Mr Graham. But even as he said it, a something began to move in his heart-- a something half of jealousy for God, half of pity for poor souls buffeted by such winds as had that morning been roaring, chaff-laden, about the church, while the grain fell all to the bottom of the pulpit. Something burned in him: was it the word that was as a fire in his bones, or was it a mere lust of talk? He thought for a moment. “Have you any gatherings between Sundays?” he asked. “Yes; every Wednesday evening,” replied Mr Marshal. “And if you won’t preach on Sunday, we shall announce to-night that next Wednesday a clergyman of the Church of Scotland will address the prayer meeting.” He was glad to get out of it so, for he was uneasy about his friend, both as to his nerve, which might fail him, and his Scotch oddities, which would not. “That would be hardly true,” said Mr Graham, “seeing I never got beyond a licence.” “Nobody here knows the difference between a licentiate and a placed minister; and if they did they would not care a straw. So we’ll just say _clergyman_.” “But I won’t have it announced in any terms. Leave that alone, and I will try to speak at the prayer meeting.”