g
to do but to talk about what the eyes saw.

And because of all this, the Rev. Paul Ford understood very well that he
(God's minister), the church, the town, and even Christianity itself was
suffering; and must suffer still more unless--

Clearly something must be done, and done at once. But what?

Slowly the minister took from his pocket the notes he had made for his
next Sunday's sermon. Frowningly he looked at them. His mouth settled
into stern lines, as aloud, very impressively, he read the verses on
which he had determined to speak:

"'But woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye shut
up the kingdom of heaven against men: for ye neither go in yourselves,
neither suffer ye them that are entering to go in.'

"'Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye devour
widows' houses, and for a pretence make long prayer: therefore ye shall
receive the greater damnation.'

"'Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye pay tithe of
mint and anise and cummin, and have omitted the weightier matters of the
law, judgment, mercy, and faith: these ought ye to have done, and not to
leave the other undone.'"

It was a bitter denunciation. In the green aisles of the woods, the
minister's deep voice rang out with scathing effect. Even the birds and
squirrels seemed hushed into awed silence. It brought to the minister a
vivid realization of how those words would sound the next Sunday when he
should utter them before his people in the sacred hush of the church.

His people!--they WERE his people. Could he do it? Dare he do it? Dare
he not do it? It was a fearful denunciation, even without the words that
would follow--his own words. He had prayed and prayed. He had pleaded
earnestly for help, for guidance. He longed--oh, how earnestly he
longed!--to take now, in this crisis, the right step. But was this--the
right step?

Slowly the minister folded the papers and thrust them back into his
pocket. Then, with a sigh that was almost a moan, he flung himself down
at the foot of a tree, and covered his face with his hands.

It was there that Pollyanna, on her way home from the Pendleton house,
found him. With a little cry she ran forward.

"Oh, oh, Mr. Ford! You--YOU haven't broken YOUR leg or--or anything,
have you?" she gasped.

The minister dropped his hands, and looked up quickly. He tried to
smile.

"No, dear--no, indeed! I'm just--resting."

"Oh," sighed Pollyanna, falling back a lit