not a magnificent one. I evaded the question. I was obliged to
confess to myself that it was unsatisfactory. If I were obliged to
choose between the Protestantism of Mr. Work and the Romanism of
Father Hyacinthe, I am afraid I should choose the latter.

"But," said Jennie, "Mr. Work's sermon was not true Protestant
doctrine, John. There is a Real Presence in the communion. Only it
is in the heart, not in the head, in us, not in the symbols that we
eat. Did you not feel the Real Presence when Father Hyatt in the
afternoon broke and blessed the bread? Did you not see the living
Christ in his radiant face and hear the living Christ in his
touching words, and his more touching silence?"

Yes! I did. Father Hyatt had disproved the morning's sermon, though
he said never a word about it.

Father Hyatt is an old, old man. He has long since retired from
active service, having worn out his best days here at Wheathedge, in
years now long gone by. A little money left him by a parishioner,
and a few annual gifts from old friends among his former people, are
his means of support. His hair is white as snow. His hands are thin,
his body bent, his voice weak, his eyesight dim, his ears but half
fulfil their office; his mind even shows signs of the weakness and
wanderings of old age; but his heart is young, and I verily believe
he looks forward to the hour of his release with hopes as high and
expectations as ardent as those with which, in college, he
anticipated the hour of his graduation. This was the man, patriarch
of the Church, who has lived to see the children he baptized grow
up, go forth into the world, many die and be buried; who has
baptized the second and even the third generation, and has seen