o men's
needs, and somehow I cannot help hearing a voice say, 'Philip Strong, go
to Milton and work for Christ. Abandon your dream of a parish where you
may indulge your love of scholarship in the quiet atmosphere of a
University town, and plunge into the hard, disagreeable, but necessary
work of this age, in the atmosphere of physical labor, where great
questions are being discussed, and the masses are engrossed in the
terrible struggle for liberty and home, where physical life thrusts
itself out into society, trampling down the spiritual and intellectual,
and demanding of the Church and the preacher the fighting powers of
giants of God to restore in men's souls a more just proportion of the
value of the life of man on earth.'

"So, you see, Sarah," the minister went on after a little pause, "I want
to go to Elmdale, but the Lord probably wants me to go to Milton."

Mrs. Strong was silent. She had the utmost faith in her husband that he
would do exactly what he knew he ought to do, when once he decided what
it was. Philip Strong was also silent a moment. At last he said, "Don't
you think so, Sarah?"

"I don't see how we can always tell exactly what the Lord wants us to
do. How can you tell that He doesn't want you to go to Elmdale? Are
there not great opportunities to influence young student life in a
University town? Will not some one go to Elmdale and become pastor of
that church?"

"No doubt there is a necessary work to be done there. The only question
is, am I the one to do it, or is the call to Milton more imperative? The
more I think of it, the more I am convinced that I must go to Milton."

"Then," said the minister's wife, rising suddenly and speaking with a
mock seriousness that her husband fully understood, "I don't see why you
called me up here to decide what you had evidently settled before you
called me. Do you consider that fair treatment, sir? It will serve you
right if those biscuits I put in the oven when you called me are fallen
as completely as Babylon. And I will make you eat half a dozen of them,
sir, to punish you. We cannot afford to waste anything these times."

"What," cried Philip, slyly, "not on $2,000 a year! But I'll eat the
biscuits. They can't possibly be any worse than those we had a week
after we were married--the ones we bought from the bakery, you
remember," Philip added, hastily.

"You saved yourself just in time, then," replied the minister's wife.
She came close up to the d