CHAPTER XI.
IN WHICH THE VICAR PREACHES A FAREWELL SERMON.
WHO has not seen the misery and despair often caused in a family by the senseless selfishness of one of its members?
Who has not felt enraged at such times, to think that a man or woman should presume on the affection and kindheartedness of their relatives, and yet act as if they were wholly without those affections themselves?
And, lastly, who of us all is guiltless of doing this?
Let him that is without sin among us cast the first stone.
The Spring sun rose on the Sabbath morning, as if no trouble were in store for any mortal that day.

The Vicar rose with the sun, for he had certain arrears of the day's sermons to get through, and he was in the habit of saying that his best and clearest passages were written with his window open, in the brisk morning air.
But although the air was brisk and pleasant this morning, and all nature was in full glory, the inspiration did not come to the Vicar quite so readily as usual.

In fact, he could not write at all, and at one time was thinking of pleading ill health, and not preaching, but afterwards changed his mind, and patched the sermons up somehow, making both morning and afternoon five minutes shorter than usual.
He felt queer and dull in the head this morning.

And, after breakfast, he walked to church with his sister and daughter, not speaking a word.
Miss Thornton was rather alarmed, he looked so dull and stupid.

But Mary set it all down to his displeasure at her.
She was so busy with far other thoughts at church that she did not notice the strange halting way in which her father read the service--sometimes lisping, sometimes trying twice before he could pronounce a word at all.