at, and he now remained standing,
leaning on his pulpit, looking down at the stranger. It was the man
who had come to his house the Friday before, the same dusty, worn,
shabby-looking young man. He held his faded hat in his two hands. It
seemed to be a favorite gesture. He had not been shaved and his hair
was rough and tangled. It is doubtful if any one like this had ever
confronted the First Church within the sanctuary. It was tolerably
familiar with this sort of humanity out on the street, around the
railroad shops, wandering up and down the avenue, but it had never
dreamed of such an incident as this so near.

There was nothing offensive in the man's manner or tone. He was not
excited and he spoke in a low but distinct voice. Mr. Maxwell was
conscious, even as he stood there smitten into dumb astonishment at
the event, that somehow the man's action reminded him of a person he
had once seen walking and talking in his sleep.

No one in the house made any motion to stop the stranger or in any
way interrupt him. Perhaps the first shock of his sudden appearance
deepened into a genuine perplexity concerning what was best to do.
However that may be, he went on as if he had no thought of
interruption and no thought of the unusual element which he had
introduced into the decorum of the First Church service. And all the
while he was speaking, the minister leaded over the pulpit, his face
growing more white and sad every moment. But he made no movement to
stop him, and the people sat smitten into breathless silence. One
other face, that of Rachel Winslow from the choir, stared white and
intent down at the shabby figure with the faded hat. Her face was
striking at any time. Under the pressure of the present unheard-of
incident it was as personally distinct as if it had been framed in
fire.

"I'm not an ordinary tramp, though I don't know of any teaching of
Jesus that makes one kind of a tramp less worth saving than another.
Do you?" He put the question as naturally as if the whole
congregation had been a small Bible class. He paused just a moment
and coughed painfully. Then he went on.

"I lost my job ten months ago. I am a printer by trade. The new
linotype machines are beautiful specimens of invention, but I know
six men who have killed themselves inside of the year just on
account of those machines. Of course I don't blame the newspapers
for getting the machines. Meanwhile, what can a man do? I know I
never learned but