Norton made his way to the brown door of the parsonage, and knocked;
but the person that opened it was the minister himself. Norton was a
little confused now, remembering what his errand meant there.
"Norton Laval, isn't it?" said Mr. Richmond. "You are very welcome,
Norton, at my house. Will you come in?"
"No, sir. If you please----"
"What is it? Something you would rather say to me here?"
"No, sir. I was coming----"
"To see me, I hope?"
"No, sir," said Norton, growing desperate and colouring, which he was
very unapt to do. "If you please, Mr. Richmond, I was sent to speak
to--I forget what her name is--the woman who lives here."
"Miss Redwood?"
"Yes, sir."
"Who sent you?"
"Matilda Englefield."
"Did she? Pray why did not Matilda come with you?"
"She could not, sir; she was very busy. She asked me to come."
"You can see Miss Redwood," said Mr. Richmond, smiling. "I believe she
is always ready to receive visitors; at least I never saw a time when
she was not. You have only to walk right in and knock at her door
there. When are you coming to see _me_, Norton? You and I ought to be
better friends."
"I don't know, sir," said Norton. "I would not intrude."
"Ask your friend Matilda if I do not like such intrusions. I shall have
to invite you specially, I see. Well, go in and find Miss Redwood. I
will not detain you now."
Norton went in, glad to be released, for he did not exactly want to
tell his errand to the minister, knocked at the kitchen door and was
bade to enter. It was full, the kitchen was, of the sweet smell of
baking bread; and Miss Redwood was busily peering into her stove oven.
"Who's there?" she asked, too much engaged in turning her loaves to
give her eyes to anything else, even a visitor. Norton told his name,
and waited till the oven doors shut to with a clang; and then Miss
Redwood, very pink in the face, rose up to look at him.
"I've seen you before," was her remark.
"Yes. I brought Matilda Englefield here one day," Norton answered.
"H'm. I thought she brought you. What brings you now?"
"Matilda wanted me to come with a message to you."
"Well, you can sit down and tell it, if you're a mind to. Why didn't
the child come herself? that's the first idee that comes to me."
"She is busy trying to nurse some sick folks, and they are more than
she can manage, and she wants your help. At least, she sent me to ask
you if you wouldn't come."
"Who's ill?"
"Some people just come from Switzerland to be my mother's servants."
"Switzerland," repeated Miss Redwood. "I have heard o' Switzerland,
more than once in my life. I should like to know whereabouts it is. I
never knew any one yet that could tell me."
"Mr. Richmond knows, I suppose," said Norton.
"I suppose he knows Greek," said Miss Redwood, "and ever so many other
queer tongues too, I've no doubt; but I should like to see myself
askin' him to learn me. No, I mean, as I never knew nobody that I'd
ask. La! there's folks enough that knows. Only I never had no chances
for them things."
"I could shew you where Switzerland is, if you had a map," said Norton.
"I guess I know as much as that myself," said the housekeeper quietly,
opening the stove door again for a peep at the oven. "But what does
_that_ tell me? I see a little spot o' paper painted green, and a big
spot along side of it painted some other colour; and the map is all
spots; and somebody tells me that little green spot is Switzerland. And
I should like to know, how much wiser am I for that? That's paper and
green paint; but what I want to know is, where is the _place_."
"It's hard to tell," said Norton, so much amused that he forgot his
commission.
"Well, these folks come from Switzerland, you say. How did they come?"
"They came in a ship--part of the way."
"How fur in a ship?"
"Three thousand miles."
"Three thousand," repeated Miss Red wood. "When you get up there, I
don't know what miles mean, no more than if you spoke another language.
I understand a hundred miles. It's nigh that to New York."
"They came that hundred miles, over and above," said Norton.
"Well, how long now, does it take a ship to go that fur? Three thousand
miles."
"It depends on how fast the wind blows."
"The wind goes awful fast sometimes," said Miss Redwood. "When it goes
at that rate as will carry a chimney off a house, and pick up a tree by
the roots as I would a baby under my arm, seems to me a ship would
travel at a powerful speed."
"It would certainly, if there was nothing to hinder," said Norton; "but
at those times, you see, the wind picks up the water, and sends such
huge waves rolling about that it is not very safe to be where they can
give you a slap. Ships don't get along best at such times."
"Well, I'm thankful I'm not a sailor," said Miss Redwood. "I'd rather
stay home and know less. How many o' these folks o' yourn is ill?"
"All of them, pretty much," said Norton. "Two men and two women."
"Fever nagur?"
"No, 'tisn't that. I don't know what it is. The doctor is attending
them. He ordered beef tea to-day; and Matilda made some; but they seem
too ill to take it now they've got it."
Miss Redwood dropped her towel, with which she was just going to open
the oven again, and stood upright.
"Beef tea?" she echoed. "How long have these folks been ill?"
"Ever since they came ashore almost. They came straight up here, and
began to be ill immediately. That was a few days ago; not a week."
"Beef tea!" said Miss Redwood again. "And just come to shore. How do
they look? Did you see them?"
"Yes, I saw them," said Norton. "I went with Matilda when she took the
beef tea to them. How did they look? I can't tell; they looked bad. The
men were mahogany colour, and one of the women was out of her head, I
think."
"And you two children going to see them!" exclaimed Miss Redwood, in a
tone that savoured of strong disapprobation, not to say dismay.
"Because there was no one else," said Norton. "Mamma has gone to New
York to get more people; for all ours went off when they knew of the
sickness at the farmhouse."
"Why?" said Miss Redwood, sharply.
"I don't know. I suppose they were jealous of these strangers."
"H'm," said Miss Redwood, beginning now to take her bread out of the
oven with a very hurried hand; "there's jealousy enough in the world,
no doubt, and unreason enough; but it don't usually come like an
epidemic neither. You go home, and tell Matilda I'm a comin' as fast as
ever I kin get my chores done and my hood and shawl on. And you tell
her--will she do what you tell her?"
"I don't know," said Norton. "What is it?"
"_Where_ is it these folks are ill? Not to your house?"
"Oh no. Down at the farmhouse--you know our farmhouse--under the bank."
"Did you leave the child there?"
"She was there when I came away."
"Well, you run home as fast as your legs can carry you, and fetch her
out of that. Bring her home, and don't you nor she go down there again.
Maybe it's no harm, but it's safe to do as I tell you. Now go, and I'll
come. Don't let the grass grow under your feet."
Norton was not used to be ordered about quite so decidedly; it struck
him as an amusing variety in his life. However he divined that Miss
Redwood might have some deep reason for being so energetic, and he was
not slow in getting back to Briery Bank; so his mother's place was
called. The house was shut up, as he and Matilda had left it, and he
went on down to the home of the sick people. There he found Matilda as
he had left her. Norton only put his head into the sick-room and called
her out.
"Miss Redwood is coming," he said.
"I'm so glad! I knew she would," said Matilda. "She will know what to
do. They all seem stupid, Norton, except the woman who is out of her
head."
"Yes, she will know what to do," said Norton; "and you had better come
away now. You don't."
"I can do something, though," said Matilda. "I can give the medicine
and the beef tea. Why, there was nobody even to give the medicine,
Norton. I found it here with the doctor's directions; and nobody had
taken it till I came, not one of these poor people. But oh, the rooms
are so disagreeable with so many invalids in them! you can't think."
"I can, for I've been in them," said Norton. "And once is enough. They
have got the medicine now, Pink; you needn't stay any longer."
"Oh yes, but I must. I must till Miss Redwood comes. The medicine will
have to be taken again in a little while."
"It can wait till she gets here. You come away, Pink. Miss Redwood said
you should."
"She didn't know what there was for me to do, or she wouldn't have said
it. I can't go, Norton."
"But you _must_, Pink. She said so. Suppose these people should be ill
with something dreadful? you can't tell."
"I am sure they would want a nurse then."
"But _you_ might get ill, you know."
"Well, Norton, I'm not afraid."
"You might get sick, all the same, if you're _not_ afraid," said
Norton, impatiently. "Come, Pink, you must come."
"I can't, Norton. I must go in and give them some more beef tea now, in
a minute. They can't take but ever so little at a time. It would be
very wrong to leave them as they are."
"You might get ill, and die," said Norton.
"Well, Norton," said Matilda, slowly, "I don't think I am afraid of
that. I belong to Jesus. He will take care of me."
"I don't think you know what you are talking of!" said Norton, very
impatient, and very much at a loss how to manage Matilda.
"Oh yes, I do!" she said, smiling. "Now I must go in. _You_ needn't
come, for there wouldn't be anything for you to do."
Matilda disappeared; and Norton, wishing very much that he could lay
hold of her and carry her away by force, did not, however, feel that it
would exactly do. He sat down on the door stone of the house, he would
not go further, and waited. There was a delicious calm sunlight over
all the world that October afternoon; it puzzled Norton how there could
be a sick-house anywhere under such a sky. He heard the ponies stamping
their idle hoofs against the barn floor; they were spoiling for
exercise; why were he and Matilda not out driving, instead of having
this state of things? Then some gaily disposed crows went flying
overhead, calling a cheery reminder to each other as they went along;
_they_ were having a good time. Norton chafed against the barriers that
hindered him. Suddenly a swift footstep came over the grass, and Mr.
Richmond stood before him.
"Is this the house?" he asked. "Is Matilda here?"
"Yes, sir; and I've tried to get her out. And I can't."
Mr. Richmond went in without more words. A moment after Matilda opened
the door he had shut.
"Well! will you go now?" said Norton.
"I must. Mr. Richmond will not let me stay."
Mr. Richmond himself came again to the door.
"Norton," said he, "I am going to ask you to take Matilda to the
parsonage. The best thing will be for you and her to make your home
there, until Mrs. Laval gives further orders. You will both be heartily
welcome. Will you take her there and take care of her until I come
home?"
"Thank you, sir," said Norton, "it is not necessary----"
"You must let my word go for that," said the minister, smiling. "If not
necessary, I think it prudent. I wish it; and I invite both of you. It
would be treating me very ill to refuse me, and I am sure you will not
do that. I trust you to take care of Matilda until I get home. The
house will be quite alone when Miss Redwood leaves it. Is anybody in
the house on the bank?"
"No, sir; nobody."
"I will lock it up, then, and bring the key. Go in and put up anything
you will want for a day or two, and I will send it after you."
With a nod and a smile at them Mr. Richmond went in again. The two
children looked at each other, and then began to mount the bank.
"You do what Mr. Richmond tells you," remarked Norton.
"Of course," said Matilda. "So do you."
"It wouldn't be civil to do anything else," said Norton. "But isn't it
jolly, that you and I should go to make a visit at the parsonage! What
is a parsonage like? It isn't like other houses, I suppose."
"Why, yes, it is," said Matilda; "just like; only a minister lives in
it."
"That makes the difference," said Norton. "Don't you feel as if you
were in church all the time? I shall, I know."
"Why, no, Norton! what an idea. Mr. Richmond's house is not like a
church."
"Isn't he like a minister?"
"Why, yes, of course!" said Matilda, with some indignation. "He isn't
like _your_ minister, Norton."
"Why?" said Norton, laughing.
"I don't know. He isn't stiff. He don't dress unlike other people. He
is just as pleasant as anybody else can be; and a _great_ deal
pleasanter, I think."
"What you call good people, generally are stiff," said Norton.
"Oh no, Norton, they are not. What makes you think so?"
"You were very stiff just now," said Norton.
"Oh, do you mean _that_ sort of stiffness? But, Norton, I thought there
was something I could do there, you know, and I didn't think I ought to
come away."
Getting to the top of the bank broke off the discussion. Matilda and
Norton each had things to get together to go to the parsonage; and it
was necessary to change their dress. The sun was well on his westing
way when they left the iron gate of Briery Bank, bag in hand; and in
the little lane of the parsonage the elm trees cast broad and long
shadows. As they came up on the piazza, Miss Redwood opened the door.
Her hood and shawl were on, and she had a basket in her hand. She
stopped suddenly.
"What is it now?" she said. "What's wanting?"
"Nothing," said Matilda; "only Mr. Richmond has sent us here."
"He has!" said the housekeeper. "You've come to stop?"
"Mr. Richmond says so. He wished it."
"Well, what'll you do?" said Miss Redwood, coming to a sort of pause.
"There ain't a living soul in the house, and there won't be, 'cept the
minister himself; and how he'll get along I don't know. I can't be in
two places at once."
"Can't I get the tea, Miss Redwood?"
"La, I don't know but what you kin. Come along in, and let me tell you.
There's bread all baked, this afternoon--it ain't cold yet--enough to
last a siege; it's in that pantry, Matilda, in the bread box. You know
there's all the cups; and saucers; and tea things, for you've seen me
get 'em out; and the tea canister, and the sugar. And the milk is down
cellar, in a pan, and there's cream onto it. Can you skim it off and
keep it cream yet, for the minister's tea?"
"Oh yes; I can do that, Miss Redwood."
"Then you'll get along for to-night; and I'll try and be round in the
morning, if I kin. But you'll want sheets--There's the bed in the spare
room off the hall; that's all ready for one of ye; I got it fixed up
Saturday for somebody that never come; 'tain't everybody as sticks to
his word like the minister. La, I get weary with the folks that are
like Job's brooks; they say and don't do; and when you expect 'em they
ain't there. I was put out, o' Saturday, when I found out that was how
it was with this man; but there's good in everything, if you can keep
your patience; now the room's ready, and it wouldn't ha' been ready;
for I had a lot o' apples there dryin', and a board full o' fresh
turnpikes was on the bed; _they_ was gettin' finished; and I had a
quilt in a corner that I had sot up on the sticks and it was a'most
done quiltin'; and all them things I had to fly round and get rid of;
and I've no time for anything now. So, dear, that room'll do for one of
ye, and the other--you can put the sheets on the bed, can't ye? for the
minister'll be playin' nurse till I come, and I wish I had Jack's
seven-mile boots to get to Briery Bank with."
While this talk was going on, Miss Redwood had brought Matilda
up-stairs, and was taking out linen and coverlets from a press in one
of the rooms. Matilda said she could manage everything, with Norton's
help.
"Then I'll go," said Miss Redwood. "But if I shouldn't be able fur to
run away in the morning and see to the breakfast!----"
She stopped, thinking.
"Dear Miss Redwood, won't you trust me to do it? I think I can."
"What sort of a breakfast will it be?" said the housekeeper,
meditatively.
"I'll _try_ to have it right."
"La, yes, if it depended on your tryin'," said the housekeeper; "your
will is as good as gold; but _will_ won't cook a beefsteak."
"I'll try," said Matilda again.
"Well," said Miss Redwood, "we must walk till we get out o' the woods,
and then we'll run. The minister ain't accustomed to have his steak any
way, but as he likes it; maybe it'll do him no harm. Everything's down
cellar, Matilda, 'cept the things in the kitchen pantry; and you'll
find out which is which. And I'll go."
So she did. And as the door closed after her, the two children in the
hall looked at each other.
"Nobody in the house?" said Norton.
"Nobody but ourselves."
"That's jolly," said Norton. "Pink, I have got that catalogue in my
pocket; let us sit down somewhere and make out a list of those
hyacinths."
"O Norton!--Yes, I will in a little while. I must go get the table
ready for tea; and I had better do it now before Mr. Richmond comes
home."
"You and I seem to have a great deal of getting tea to do," said
Norton, as he followed Matilda into the little dining-room. "What do
you want _me_ to do?"
"O Norton! if you would just look and see if the tea-kettle is on, and
if not, put it on. Will you?"
"Where, Pink?"
"Just open that door. There is the kitchen."
"I remember," said Norton. "No, the kettle isn't on. Here goes."
There was a little busy, pleasant bustle, for a time; and then Matilda,
with Norton's help, had got everything in order for the evening meal.
The sun was near setting, and threw bright lines of light in at the two
little west windows, filling the small dining-room with pure gold; then
it went down, and the gold was gone, and only in the low western sky
the brightness remained.
"It's time for the minister to be at home," Norton said.
"He has a great deal to do," Matilda answered.
"What?" said Norton. "I always thought the parsons had an easy time of
it. I could write two themes a week, I think, if I tried hard."
"Norton!" Matilda exclaimed, "it isn't that; and Mr. Richmond doesn't
write themes, as you call it, to begin with."
"That must be harder then," said Norton; "to stand up and speak to
people without anything to say."
"Why he doesn't!" said Matilda. "Mr. Richmond always has plenty to say.
I suppose he could talk all day, if he didn't get tired."
"I mean preaching," said Norton.
"Yes, and I mean preaching," said Matilda.
"Where is it to come from?" said the boy, pursing his lips ready for a
whistle.
"Why, out of his head, and out of his heart," said Matilda. "Where
should it come from?"
"I say, Pink," said Norton, "it's very funny for me to be here. I don't
think I can stand it long."
"Stand what?"
"This. Being at the parsonage and getting talked to. I suppose I shall."
"Norton," said Matilda, confidently, "you'll like it. It's just nice."
"I don't know about that," said Norton. "It feels queer. I believe I am
afraid."
Matilda laughed at his very un-fear-like face; and then the front door
opened and shut. Mr. Richmond had come.
It was a jolly tea they had, Norton confessed afterwards. Mr. Richmond
went rummaging among Miss Redwood's stores and brought out a jar of
sweetmeats; in honour, he said, of his guests. The sweetmeats were
good, and so was Miss Redwood's fresh bread. And there was indeed
plenty of talk at the table; but it was not in the least like
preaching. From the sick Swiss, and their voyage, Mr. Richmond and
Norton somehow got upon the subject of navigation and commerce, with
ships ancient and modern, and a little touch here and there showing how
much these things have had to do with the history of the world and the
life of nations. Mr. Richmond and Norton talked and talked; and Matilda
listened, and made the tea, and enjoyed it all very much, seeing too
what a good time Norton was having.
After tea, they removed into the study. Mr. Richmond asked them to come
there, saying he was going to play this evening. He built up a
beautiful fire, and gave Norton a book to look at; while he himself sat
for awhile quite silent, looking into the blaze, and only moving now
and then to take care that it was kept up. So Matilda found the two,
when she had put the tea things away and followed them to the study.
The red curtains were drawn across the windows; the red light of the
fire leaped and shone all through the room; in the glow of it Norton
sat brooding over his book, and before it Mr. Richmond sat thinking.
But he held out his hand as Matilda came in, and asked if his little
housekeeper had got all things straight. Matilda came to his
outstretched hand, which drew her to his side; and the room was still
again. Matilda stood motionless. By and by Norton glanced up at her
from his book, and covertly smiled. It started Matilda's thoughts.
"Are you not going to be busy, Mr. Richmond?" she ventured, gently.
"Not doing anything at all," said Mr. Richmond, rousing himself. "I
have been busy all day, Matilda. I am going to do nothing to-night.
What is it?"
"Will it be doing anything to talk to Norton and me?"
"I can't say," Mr. Richmond replied, laughing a little. "Perhaps you
will find me work to do, but I'll risk it. What do you want to talk
about?"
"There was a question--Norton and I could not tell what the answer
ought to be. I believe he thought one way, and I thought another."
"What was the question?" said Mr. Richmond; while Norton's face looked
up from his book, bright with the same query.
"We were talking--it was about opportunities, you know, Mr. Richmond;
the opportunities that having money gives people; and we couldn't tell,
Norton and I, how far one ought to go. Norton said people must stop
somewhere; and I suppose they must. Where ought they to stop?"
Matilda's face looked very earnest. Norton's, comical.
"Where ought they to stop in giving money, you mean?"
"Yes, sir. For doing good, you know, and making other people
comfortable."
"It is rather a large question. Were you afraid of giving too much, or
of giving too little?"
"I think one of us was afraid of giving too much, and the other of
giving too little."
"The best way is to go to the Bible and see what that says. May I
trouble one of you to open it at the Second Epistle to the Corinthians,
and read what you find in the seventh verse of the ninth chapter?"
Norton dropped his book and sprang to do the service asked for. He read
the words--
"'Every man according as he purposeth in his heart, so let him give;
not grudgingly, or of necessity: for God loveth a cheerful giver.'"
Norton read, and looked up, as much as to say, What now? how does this
help?
"I don't see how that tells, Mr. Richmond," said Matilda.
"It tells one or two things. You are to give out of your heart; not
because somebody else asks you, or some other body says you ought.
_That_ would not please God. You are to do what you _like_ to do; much
or little, as you feel."
"But ought it to be much or little?"
"As you feel. As your heart says."
"But then, Mr. Richmond, will the Lord be just as well pleased whether
it is much or little?"
"Norton will please read the sixth verse."
"'But this I say, He which soweth sparingly shall reap also sparingly;
and he which soweth bountifully shall reap also bountifully.'"
"But that don't tell either," said Norton, when he had read.
"I think it does," said Matilda, slowly. "It tells one thing. Mr.
Richmond, it doesn't tell _how much_ one ought to like to give. That
was the very question between Norton and me; and we could not settle
it."
"Don't you see, Matilda, that everybody's heart would give its own
answer to that question?"
"But, Mr. Richmond, surely there is a right and a wrong answer?"
"I am afraid a good many wrong answers," said Mr. Richmond.
Norton looked as if he would like to say something, but modestly kept
back before the minister. Mr. Richmond caught the look.
"Speak out, Norton," said he, smiling. "Truth will always bear to be
looked at."
"I don't know much about it, sir," said Norton. "Only it seems to me,
that if one begins to help other people all one can, one will soon want
helping himself."
"Ah!" said Mr. Richmond. "Read the next verse now."
"The next to the seventh, sir?--'And God is able to make all grace
abound toward you; that ye, always having all sufficiency in all
things, may abound to every good work.'"
"That does not sound as if Matilda were in any danger of growing poor
through helping Mrs. Eldridge, does it?"
"But, sir!" said Norton, "the more one gives away, the less one has for
one's self?"
"It does not always work so," said Mr. Richmond. "The Bible says,
'There is that scattereth, and yet increaseth.'"
Norton did not know exactly how to fight for his opinions, and so was
silent, like a well-bred boy as he was; but Matilda's feeling was
different.
"I understand," she said; "at least I think I do; but, Mr. Richmond,
this does not get Norton and me out of our puzzle. You don't mean that
people ought to keep nothing for themselves?"
"'Every man according as he purposeth in his heart,'" Mr. Richmond
repeated. "That is the order. There have been people, Matilda, who have
given their all for the sake of the Lord Jesus, and kept, as you say,
nothing for themselves. It was in their heart. I cannot blame them, for
one. He did not."
"But ought every one to do so?"
"Matilda, I dare not set any rule but the rule my Master has set. _He_
said, 'He that forsaketh not all that he hath, he cannot be my
disciple.'"
"People don't do that, sir," said Norton, eagerly.
"_Ought_ they to do it, sir?" said Matilda, timidly. "To give away all
they have got?"
"He did not say, 'give away,' but 'forsake.' The word means literally
'to take leave of.' They give up thinking that what they have is their
own; and from that time stand ready to give it away entirely, if the
Master says so."
"Is that religion, sir?" Norton asked.
"But, Mr. Richmond," Matilda said, in another tone, "that is the very
thing. How are they to know when He does tell them to give these things
away?"
"We are coming to it now," said Mr. Richmond. "You want to know what
religion is, Norton. Please turn to the fifth chapter of that same
epistle to the Corinthians, and read aloud the--let me see--I think it
is the fourteenth and fifteenth verses."
Norton obeyed.
"'For the love of Christ constraineth us; because we thus judge, that
if one died for all, then were all dead: and that He died for all, that
they which live should not henceforth live unto themselves, but unto
Him which died for them and rose again.'"
"That is your answer," said Mr. Richmond; "that is religion. Now for
Matilda's answer--Norton, turn to the Epistle to the Colossians, and
the third chapter, and read the seventeenth verse."
"'And whatsoever ye do, in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord
Jesus, giving thanks to God and the Father, by Him.'"
"There is your rule, Matilda. It is carrying out the former words. You
have only to apply that to everything you do."
"What is doing all _in the name_ of the Lord?" Norton asked.
"Not in your own name; not as though you were your own master; not as
seeking first your own pleasure or advancement; not as using your own
things. Correlatively, for the Lord; for His pleasure, for His service,
as belonging to Him."
"'In word or deed,'" said Matilda. "That means giving and everything."
"But then, in religion one would never be free," said Norton.
"How, never be free?"
"Why, one must act as if one never be longed to one's self."
"We don't," said Mr. Richmond. "We are _not_ our own; we are bought
with a price. And we never were free till now."
"But, if I go to buy a coat----" said Norton; and he stopped.
"Yes, if you go to buy a coat, you will remember that you and the coat
are the Lord's together; and you will buy that coat which you think is
the one He would like you to wear, and in which you can best work for
Him; and not use His money for any other."
Norton was silent, not because he had no thoughts to speak. Matilda was
silent, but with a very different face. It was serious, sweet,
meditative, and content.
"I see how it is, Mr. Richmond," she said, at last, looking up to his
face. "Thank you, sir."
"It is very nice to have people apply sermons for themselves, Matilda,"
said the minister.