id you?" he asked eagerly. "Did you?"

I could see that my proposal of going to church had instantly affected
his spirits. Then he hesitated abruptly with a sidelong glance at my bag
and rusty clothing. I could see exactly what was passing in his mind.

"No," I said, smiling, as though answering a spoken question, "I am not
exactly what you would call a tramp."

He flushed.

"I didn't mean--I WANT you to come. That's what a church is for. If I
thought--"

But he did not tell me what he thought; and, though he walked quietly
at my side, he was evidently deeply disturbed. Something of his
discouragement I sensed even then, and I don't think I was ever sorrier
for a man in my life than I was for him at that moment. Talk about the
suffering sinners! I wonder if they are to be compared with the trials
of the saints?

So we approached the little white church, and caused, I am certain,
a tremendous sensation. Nowhere does the unpredictable, the unusual,
excite such confusion as in that settled institution--the church.

I left my bag in the vestibule, where I have no doubt it was the object
of much inquiring and suspicious scrutiny, and took my place in a
convenient pew. It was a small church with an odd air of domesticity,
and the proportion of old ladies and children in the audience was
pathetically large. As a ruddy, vigorous, out-of-door person, with the
dust of life upon him, I felt distinctly out of place.

I could pick out easily the Deacon, the Old Lady Who Brought Flowers,
the President of the Sewing Circle, and, above all, the Chief Pharisee,
sitting in his high place. The Chief Pharisee--his name I learned was
Nash, Mr. J. H. Nash (I did not know then that I was soon to make his
acquaintance)--the Chief Pharisee looked as hard as nails, a middle-aged
man with stiff chin-whiskers, small round, sharp eyes, and a pugnacious
jaw.

"That man," said I to myself, "runs this church," and instantly I found
myself looking upon him as a sort of personification of the troubles I
had seen in the minister's eyes.

I shall not attempt to describe the service in detail. There was a
discouraging droop and quaver in the singing, and the mournful-looking
deacon who passed the collection-plate seemed inured to disappointment.
The prayer had in it a note of despairing appeal which fell like a cold
hand upon one's living soul. It gave one the impression that this
was indeed a miserable, dark, despairing world, which deserved t