greatest deference by the elders, and with none at all by the children,
who besieged him. The bigger ones knew that he had had what is called a
history; that he had been rich once, with a great mansion of his own, but
now he lived on Dalton Street, almost in the slums, and worked among the
poor. His name was Mr. Bentley.

He was not there on the particular Sunday when this story opens,
otherwise the conversation about to be recorded would not have taken
place. For St. John's Church was not often mentioned in Mr. Bentley's
presence.

"Well, grandmother," said Phil Goodrich, who was the favourite
son-in-law, "how was the new rector to-day?"

"Mr. Hodder is a remarkable young man, Phil," Mrs. Waring declared,
"and delivered such a good sermon. I couldn't help wishing that you
and Rex and Evelyn and George had been in church."

"Phil couldn't go," explained the unmarried and sunburned Evelyn, "he had
a match on of eighteen holes with me."

Mrs. Waring sighed.

"I can't think what's got into the younger people these days that they
seem so indifferent to religion. Your father's a vestryman, Phil, and
I believe it has always been his hope that you would succeed him. I'm
afraid Rex won't succeed his father," she added, with a touch of regret
and a glance of pride at her husband. "You never go to church, Rex.
Phil does."