It touched Stephen's chivalry--and something deeper than chivalry. He
had had no intention of walking with her.

"There's no chapel in the afternoon," he said; "but I'll come and
fetch you in the evening."

Thus it came about that Sara was seated in Stephen's pew, next to
Stephen himself, and Stephen felt a strange pleasure unknown before,
like that of the shepherd who having brought the stray back to the
fold cares little that its wool is torn by the bushes, and it looks a
ragged and disreputable sheep. It was only Sara's wool that might seem
disreputable, for she was a very good-faced sheep. He found the hymns
for her, and they shared the same book. He did not know then that Sara
could not read a word of them.

The gathered people, the stillness, the gaslights, the solemn ascent
of the minister into the pulpit, the hearty singing of the
congregation, doubtless had their effect upon Sara, for she had never
been to a chapel and hardly to any place of assembly before. From all
amusements, the burden of Charley and her own retiring nature had kept
her back.

But she could make nothing of the sermon. She confessed afterwards
that she did not know she had anything to do with it. Like "the
Northern Farmer," she took it all for the clergyman's business, which
she amongst the rest had to see done. She did not even wonder why
Stephen should have wanted to bring her there. She sat when other
people sat, pretended to kneel when other people pretended to kneel,
and stood up when other people stood up--still brooding upon Charley's
jacket.