Tenderly she hovered about Allan the morning he began to write the first of the three sermons he was to preach.
As for him, though heavy with the possibilities of the moment, he was yet cool and centred; resigned to what might be, yet hopeful; his manner was determined, yet gentle, almost sweet--the manner of one who has committed all to God and will now put no cup from him, how bitter soever.
"I am so hopeful, dearest, for your sake," his wife said, softly, wishing to reveal her sympathy yet fearful lest she might obtrude it.

He was arranging many sheets of notes before him.
"What will the first one be ?" she asked.

He straightened in his chair.
"I've made up my mind, Nance! It's a wealthy congregation--one of the wealthiest in the city--but I shall preach first from the parable of Dives and Lazarus." "Isn't that--a little--wouldn't something else do as well--something that wouldn't seem quite so personal ?" He smiled up with fond indulgence.

"That's the woman of it--concession for temporal advantage." Then more seriously he added, "I wouldn't be true to myself, Nance, if I went down there in any spirit of truckling to wealth.

Public approval is a most desirable luxury, I grant you--wealth and ease are desirable luxuries, and the favour of those in power--but they're only luxuries.