His only internal perplexity was that he didn't see how, when the time came for him to die, twenty or thirty years hence, they would ever be able to replace him.

Such was the situation of the two churches on a certain beautiful morning in June, when an unforeseen event altered entirely the current of their fortunes.
* * * * * "No, thank you, Juliana," said the young rector to his sister across the breakfast table--and there was something as near to bitterness in his look as his saintly, smooth-shaven face was capable of reflecting--"no, thank you, no more porridge.

Prunes?
no, no, thank you; I don't think I care for any.

And, by the way," he added, "don't bother to keep any lunch for me.

I have a great deal of business--that is, of work in the parish--to see to, and I must just find time to get a bite of something to eat when and where I can." In his own mind he was resolving that the place should be the Mausoleum Club and the time just as soon as the head waiter would serve him.
After which the Reverend Edward Fareforth Furlong bowed his head for a moment in a short, silent blessing--the one prescribed by the episcopal church in America for a breakfast of porridge and prunes.
It was their first breakfast together, and it spoke volumes to the rector.