preaching." And Mr. Winter flung himself out of the study and downstairs, forgetting to take his hat, which he had carried up with him. Philip caught it up and went downstairs with it, reaching him just as he was going out of the front door. He said simply, "You forgot your hat, sir." Mr. Winter took it without a word and went out, slamming the door hard behind him.
Philip turned around, and there stood his wife. Her face was very anxious.
"Tell me all about it, Philip," she said. Sunday evening they had talked over the fact of Mr. Winter's walking out of the church during the service, and had anticipated some trouble. Philip related the facts of Mr. Winter's visit, telling his wife some things the mill-owner had said.
"What did you say, Philip, to make him so angry? Did you give him a piece of your mind?"
"I gave him the whole of it," replied Philip, somewhat grimly—"at least all of it on that particular subject that he could stand."
"Oh, dear! It seems too bad to have this trouble come so soon! What will
Mr. Winter do? He is very wealthy and influential. Do you think—are you
sure that in this matter you have done just right, just for the best,
Philip? It is going to be very unpleasant for you."
"Well, Sarah, I would not do differently from what I have done. What have I done? I have simply preached God's truth, as I plainly see it, to my church. And if I do not do that, what business have I in the ministry at all? I regret this personal encounter with Mr. Winter; but I don't see how I could avoid it."
"Did you lose your temper?"
"No."
"There was some very loud talking. I could hear it away out in the kitchen."
"Well, you know, Sarah, the more indignant I get the less inclined I feel to 'holler.' It was Mr. Winter you heard. He was very much excited when he came, and nothing that I could conscientiously say would have made any difference with him."
"Did you ask him to pray over the matter with you?"
"No. I do not think he was in a praying mood."
"Were you?"
Philip hesitated a moment, and then replied seriously: "Yes, I truly believe I was—that is, I should not have been ashamed at any part of the interview to put myself into loving communion with my Heavenly Father."
Mrs. Strong still looked disturbed and anxious. She was going over in her mind the probable result of Mr. Winter's antagonism to the minister. It looked to her like a very serious thing. Philip was inclined to treat the affair with calm philosophy, based on the knowledge that his conscience was clear of all fault in the matter.
"What do you suppose Mr. Winter will do?" Mrs. Strong asked.
"He threatened to withdraw his financial support, and said other paying members would do the same."
"Do you think they will?"
"I don't know. I shouldn't wonder if they do."
"What will you do then? It will be dreadful to have a disturbance in the church of this kind, Philip; it will ruin your prospects here. You will not be able to work under all that friction."
And the minister's wife suddenly broke down and had a good cry; while Philip comforted her, first by saying two or three funny things, and secondly by asserting, with a positive cheerfulness which was peculiar to him when he was hard pressed, that, even if the church withdrew all support, he (Philip) could probably get a job somewhere on a railroad, or in a hotel, where there was always a demand for porters who could walk up several flights of stairs with a good-sized trunk.
"Sometimes I almost think I missed my calling," said Philip, purposely talking about himself in order to make his wife come to the defense. "I ought to have been a locomotive fireman."
"The idea, Philip Strong! A man who has the gift of reaching people with preaching the way you do!"
"The way I reach Mr. Winter, for example!"
"Yes," said his wife, "the way you reach him. Why, the very fact that you made such a man angry is pretty good proof that you reached him. Such men are not touched by any ordinary preaching."
"So you really think I have a little gift at preaching?" asked Philip, slyly.
"A little gift! It is a great deal more than a little, Philip."
"Aren't you a little prejudiced, Sarah?"
"No, sir. I am the severest critic you ever have in the congregation. If you only knew how nervous you sometimes make me!—when you get started on some exciting passage and make a gesture that would throw a stone image into a fit, and then begin to speak of something in a different way, like another person, and the first I know I am caught up and hurled into the subject, and forget all about you."
"Thank you," said Philip.
"What for?" asked his wife, laughing. "For forgetting you?"
"I would rather be forgotten by you than remembered by any one else," replied Philip, gallantly. "And you are such a delightful little flatterer that I feel courage for anything that may happen."
"It's not flattery; it's truth, Philip. I do believe in you and your work; and I am only anxious that you should succeed here. I can't bear to think of trouble in the church. It would almost kill me to go through such times as we sometimes read about."
"We must leave results to God. I am sure we are not responsible for more than our utmost doing and living of necessary truth." Philip spoke courageously.
"Then you don't feel disheartened by this morning's work?"
"No, I don't know that I do. I'm very sensitive, and I feel hurt at Mr. Winter's threat of withdrawing his support; but I don't feel disheartened for the work. Why should I? Am I not doing my best?"
"I believe you are. Only, dear Philip, be wise. Do not try to reform everything in a week, or expect people to grow their wings before they have started even pin-feathers. It isn't natural."
"Well, I won't," replied Philip, with a laugh. "Better trim your wings,
Sarah; they're dragging on the floor."
He hunted up his hat, which was one of the things Philip could never find twice in the same place, kissed his wife, and went out to make the visit at the mill which he was getting ready to make when Mr. Winter called.
To his surprise, when he went down through the business part of the town, he discovered that his sermon of Sunday had roused almost every one. People were talking about it on the street—an almost unheard-of thing in Milton. When the evening paper came out it described in sensational paragraphs the Reverend Mr. Strong's attack on the wealthy sinners of his own church, and went on to say that the church "was very much wrought up over the sermon, and would probably make it uncomfortable for the reverend gentleman." Philip wondered, as he read, at the unusual stir made because a preacher of Christ had denounced an undoubted evil.
"Is it, then," he asked himself, "such a remarkable piece of news that
