“Uncle Alec says that Uncle Edward says that heads are beginning to go out of fashion,” I said defiantly--all the more defiantly that I felt I should have had heads in my sermon. It would doubtless have made a much deeper impression. But the truth was I had forgotten all about such things. “Well, I’m going to have them, and I don’t care if they are unfashionable,” said Peter. “They’re good things. Aunt Jane used to say if a man didn’t have heads and stick to them he’d go wandering all over the Bible and never get anywhere in particular.” “What are you going to preach on?” asked Felix. “You’ll find out next Sunday,” said Peter significantly. The next Sunday was in October, and a lovely day it was, warm and bland as June. There was something in the fine, elusive air, that recalled beautiful, forgotten things and suggested delicate future hopes. The woods had wrapped fine-woven gossamers about them and the westering hill was crimson and gold. We sat around the Pulpit Stone and waited for Peter and Sara Ray. It was the former’s Sunday off and he had gone home the night before, but he assured us he would be back in time to preach his sermon. Presently he arrived and mounted the granite boulder as if to the manor born. He was dressed in his new suit and I, perceiving this, felt that he had the advantage of me. When I preached I had to wear my second best suit, for it was one of Aunt Janet’s laws that we should take our good suits off when we came home from church. There were, I saw, compensations for being a hired boy. Peter made quite a handsome little minister, in his navy blue coat, white collar, and neatly bowed tie. His black eyes shone, and his black curls were brushed up in quite a ministerial pompadour, but threatened to tumble over at the top in graceless ringlets. It was decided that there was no use in waiting for Sara Ray, who might or might not come, according to the humour in which her mother was. Therefore Peter proceeded with the service. He read the chapter and gave out the hymn with as much SANG FROID as if he had been doing it all his life. Mr. Marwood himself could not have bettered the way in which Peter said, “We will sing the whole hymn, omitting the fourth stanza.” That was a fine touch which I had not thought of. I began to think that, after all, Peter might be a foeman worthy of my steel. When Peter was ready to begin he thrust his hands into his pockets--a totally unorthodox thing. Then he plunged in without further ado, speaking in his ordinary conversational tone--another unorthodox thing. There was no shorthand reporter present to take that sermon down; but, if necessary, I could preach it over verbatim, and so, I doubt not, could everyone that heard it. It was not a forgettable kind of sermon. “Dearly beloved,” said Peter, “my sermon is about the bad place--in short, about hell.”