ow. It was spoken with calmness that hardly rose above a
whisper, but it seemed to the listener almost like a shout. The thought
of giving up his work simply because his church had not yet done what he
wished, or because some of his people did not like him, was the last
thing a man of his nature would do. He looked again at the man and said:

"Would you resign if you were in my place?"

"No." It was so quietly spoken that Philip almost doubted if his visitor
had replied. Then he said: "What has been done with the parsonage?"

"It is empty. The church is waiting to rent it to some one who expects
to move to Milton soon."

"Are you sorry you came here?"

"No; I am happy in my work."

"Do you have enough to eat and wear?"

"Yes, indeed. The thousand dollars which the church refused to take off
my salary goes to help where most needed; the rest is more than enough
for us."

"Does your wife think so?" The question from any one else had been
impertinent. From this man it was not.

"Let us call her in and ask her," replied Philip, with a smile.

"Sarah, the Brother Man wants to know if you have enough to live on."

Sarah came in and sat down. It was dark. The year was turning into the
softer months of spring, and all the out-door world had been a
benediction that evening if the sorrow and poverty and sin of the
tenement district so near had not pervaded the very walls and atmosphere
of the entire place. The minister's wife answered bravely: "Yes, we
have food and clothing and life's necessaries. But, oh, Philip! this
life is wearing you out. Yes, Brother Man." she continued, while a tear
rolled over her cheek, "the minister is giving his life blood for these
people, and they do not care. It is a vain sacrifice." She had spoken as
frankly as if the old man had been her father. There was a something in
him which called out such confidence.

Mr. Strong soothed his wife, clasping her to him tenderly. "There,
Sarah, you are nervous and tired. I am a little discouraged, but strong
and hearty for the work. Brother Man, you must not think we regret your
advice. We have been blessed by following it."

And then their remarkable guest stretched out his arms through the
gathering gloom in the room and seemed to bless them. Later in the
evening he again called for a Bible, and offered a prayer of wondrous
sweetness. He was shown to his plainly-furnished room. He looked around
and smiled.

"This is like my old home," he sai