Ambrose came to the rescue.

"Yes, indeed, my wife is quite right. There are no people with such
terrible memories as churchwardens. They remember a sermon twenty years
old. But as you say, the writing of sermons is not an easy task when a
man has been at it for thirty years and more. A man begins by being
enthusiastic, then his mind gets into a groove and for some time, if he
happens to like the groove, he writes very well. But by and by he has
written all there is to be said in the particular line he has chosen and
he does not know how to choose another. That is the time when a man needs
a library to help him."

"I really don't think you have reached that point, Mr. Ambrose," remarked
Mrs. Goddard. She admired the vicar and liked his sermons.

"You are fortunately not in the position of my churchwardens," answered
Mr. Ambrose. "You have not been listening to me for thirty years."

"How long have you been my tenant, Mrs. Goddard?" asked the squire.

"Nearly two years," she answered thoughtfully, and her sad eyes rested a
moment upon Mr. Juxon's face with an expression he remembered. Indeed he
looked at her very often and as he looked his admiration increased, so
that when he rose to take his leave the predominant impression of the
vicarage which remained in his mind was that of her face. Something of
the same fascination took hold of him which had seized upon John Short
when he caught sight of Mrs. Goddard through the open door of the study,
something of that unexpected interest which in Mrs. Ambrose had at first
aroused a half suspicious dislike, now long forgotten.