he afterward
said was unreportable----the manner of tone, the inflection, the gesture
of his remarkable guest no man could reproduce.

"You have moved since I saw you last," said the visitor.

"Yes," replied Philip. "You did not expect me to act on your advice so
soon?"

"My advice?" The question came in a hesitating tone. "Did I advise you
to move? Ah, yes, I remember!" A light like supremest reason flashed
over the man's face, and then died out. "Yes, yes; you are beginning to
live on your simpler basis. You are doing as you preach. That must feel
good."

"Yes," replied Philip, "it does feel good. Do you think, Brother Man,
that this will help to solve the problem?"

"What problem?"

"Why, the problem of the church and the people--winning them, saving
them."

"Are your church members moving out of their elegant houses and coming
down here to live?" The old man asked the question in utmost simplicity.

"No; I did not ask them."

"You ought to."

"What! Do you believe my people ought literally to leave their
possessions and live among the people?"

Philip could not help asking the question, and all the time he was
conscious of a strange absurdity mingled with an unaccountable respect
for his visitor, and his opinion.

"Yes," came the reply, with the calmness of light. "Christ would demand
it if he were pastor of Calvary Church in this age. The church members,
the Christians in this century, must renounce all that they have, or
they cannot be his disciples."

Philip sat profoundly silent. The words spoken so quietly by this
creature tossed upon his own soul like a vessel in a tempest. He dared
not say anything for a moment. The Brother Man looked over and said at
last: "What have you been preaching about since you came here?"

"A great many things."

"What are some of the things you have preached about?"

"Well," Philip clasped his hands over his knees; "I have preached about
the right and wrong uses of property, the evil of the saloon, the Sunday
as a day of rest and worship, the necessity of moving our church
building down into this neighborhood, the need of living on a simpler
basis, and, lastly, the true work of a church in these days."

"Has your church done what you have wished?"

"No," replied Philip, with a sigh.

"Will it do what you preach ought to be done?"

"I do not know."

"Why don't you resign?"

The question came with perfect simplicity, but it smote Philip almost
like a bl