"Half-past one."

"And you've arranged about where you're going to stay?"

"Yes, I'm going to share rooms with Miss Hallard--"

"The girl who's going to be an artist?"

"Yes; she has lodgings near Kew."

"Ah, Kew. Yes, Kew. I remember walking from Kew to Richmond, along
by the gardens, when I was quite a young man. So you're going there,
Sally?" His eyes still roamed over her.

"Yes, father. What are you doing? Are you writing a sermon?"

That little interest in his own affairs awakened him. Animation crept
into his eyes. It was the slight, subtle touch that a woman knows
how to bestow.

"Yes, I'm writing a sermon, Sally, for next Sunday--Easter
Sunday--listen to this--" In the pride of composition, having none
but her who would appreciate his efforts, he took up one of the papers
with almost trembling hands.

"There can be no hope without promise, and in the rising of our Lord
from the dead, we have the promise of everlasting life. For just as
He, on that Sabbath morning, defied the prison walls of the sepulchre,
and was lifted beyond earthly things to those things that are
spiritual, so shall we, if we defy the things of this world--its pomps