As soon as he had pronounced the benediction he looked toward the corner
again, but the school-master had already left the room. Usually he waited
until the others were gone and the two men walked homeward together,
discussing the sermon.
To-day the others slowly scattered, and the parson sat alone at the tipper
end of the room disappointed and troubled.
John strode up to the door.
"Are you ready?" he asked in a curt unnatural voice.
"Ah!" The parson sprang up gladly. "I was hoping you'd come!"
They started slowly off along the path, John walking unconsciously in it,
the parson stumbling along through the grass and weeds on one side. It had
been John's unvarying wont to yield the path to him.
"It is easy to preach," he muttered with gloomy, sarcastic emphasis.
"If you tried it once, you might think it easier to practise," retorted the
parson, laughing.
"It might be easier to one who is not tempted."
"It might be easier to one who is. No man is tempted beyond his strength,
but a sermon is often beyond his powers. I let you know, young man, that a
homily may come harder than a virtue."
"How can you stand up and preach as you've been preaching, and then come out
of the church and laugh about it!" cried John angrily.
"I'm not laughing about what I preached on," replied the parson with
gentleness.
"You are in high spirits! You are gay! You are full of levity!"
"I am full of gladness. I am happy: is that a sin?"
John wheeled on him, stopping short, and pointing back to the church: "Suppose there'd been a man in that room who was trying to some
temptation--more terrible than you've ever known anything about. You'd made
him feel that you were speaking straight at him -bidding him do right where
it was so much easier to do wrong. You had helped him; he had waited to see
you alone, hoping to get more help. Then suppose he had found you as you are
now--full of your gladness! He wouldn't have believed in you! He'd have been
hardened."
"If he'd been the right kind of man," replied the parson, quickly facing an
arraignment had the rancour of denunciation, "he ought to have been more
benefited by the sight of a glad man than the sound of a sad sermon. He'd
have found in me a man who practises what he preaches: I have conquered my
wilderness. But, I think," he added more gravely, "that if any such soul had
come to me in his trouble, I could have helped him: if he had let me know
what it was, he would have found that I could understand, could sympathize.
Still, I don't see why you should condemn my conduct by the test of
imaginary cases. I suppose I'm happy now because I'm glad to be with you,"
and the parson looked the school-master a little reproachfully in the eyes.