"Even nature is putting on a surplice in our honour," Mark laughed to
one of his companions, who not feeling quite sure whether Mark was being
poetical or profane, decided that he was being flippant, and looked
suitably grieved.
It was dusk of that short winter day when Mark reached Silchester, and
wandered back in a dream toward Vicar's Walk. Usually on Sunday evenings
the streets of the city pattered with numerous footsteps; but to-night
the snow deadened every sound, and the peace of God had gone out from
the Cathedral to shed itself upon the city.
"It will be Christmas Day in a week," Mark thought, listening to the
Sabbath bells muffled by the soft snow-laden air. For the first time it
occurred to him that he should probably have to preach next Sunday
evening.
_And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us._
That should be his text, Mark decided; and, passing from the snowy
streets, he sat thinking in the golden glooms of the Cathedral about his
sermon.
EXPLICIT PRAELUDIUM
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