the sermon was marked by that most unpardonable sin of which sermons can
be guilty; it was dull. Solid enough in matter, thoughtful beyond the
average, it was delivered in a style appallingly wooden, with an utter
absence of that arresting, dramatic power that the preacher had shown in
his children's class.

The appearance of the congregation was, as ever, a reflection of the
sermon. The heat of the day, the reaction from the long week in the open
air, the quiet monotony of the well modulated voice rising and falling
in regular cadence in what is supposed by so many preachers to be
the tone suitable for any sacred office, produced an overwhelmingly
somnolent effect. Many of them slept, some frankly and openly, others
under cover of shading hands, bowed heads, or other subterfuges. Others
again spent the whole of the period of the sermon, except for some
delicious moments of surreptitious sleep, in a painful but altogether
commendable struggle against the insidious influence of the god of
slumber.

Among the latter was Mrs. Innes, whose loyalty to her minister, which
was as much a part of her as her breathing, contended in a vigorous
fight against her much too solid flesh. It was a certain aid to
wakefulness that her two children, deep in audible slumber, kept her in
a state of active concern lest their inert and rotund little masses of
slippery flesh should elude her grasp, and wreck the proprieties of the
hour by flopping on the floor. There was also a further sleep deterrent
in the fact that immediately before her sat Mr. McFettridge, whose
usually erect form, yielding to the soporific influences of the
environment, showed a tendency gradually to sag into an attitude,
relaxed and formless, which suggested sleep. This, to the lady behind
him, partook of the nature of an affront to her minister. Consequently