It had begun to rain in spiteful little dashes and squalls, and the clergyman was turning up the collar of his overcoat and buttoning it about his throat.  Moreover, the wind had risen to half a gale, and talking was difficult when it was not wholly impossible.  But when they reached the Deer Trace gates and the shelter of the driveway evergreens, he had a defensive word ready.

“I can’t fully agree with you, you know, Miss Ardea,” he said.  “Of course, we must not reach down in the Pharisaical sense.  But neither must we lower the dignity of the sacred calling.”

Her smile was neither disloyal nor cynical; it was merely pitying.  She was thinking in her heart of hearts how much this zealous young apostle had yet to learn.

“Do you call it undignified to be a man among men?” she asked; adding quickly:  “But I know you don’t.  And what other way is open to the true brother-helper?”

“There is the church and its ministrations,” he began, but she broke in.

“To get the drowning man ashore you have first to go down into the water and lay hold of him, Mr. Morelock.  That means personal contact, personal association.”

The young man was clearly bewildered.  His experience thus far had not been enriched by many intimacies with clear-eyed young women who calmly defined the larger humanities for him.

“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand your point of view,” he demurred.

“Don’t you?  I’m not sure that I can explain just what I mean.  But it seems to me that really to help any one, you must know that one; not superficially, as people meet in ordinary ways, but intimately.  And you can’t hope to do that if you hold aloof; if you—­if you—­pose as a minister all the time.”  The word was not flattering, but she could lay hold of no other.

“Oh, I hope I don’t do that!” he laughed.  “But to creep around underground in a sooty coal-mine, a laughing-stock to those who know how to do it—­er—­professionally—­”

“The men have to do it as breadwinners, Mr. Morelock, and the most ribald one of them wouldn’t laugh at you.  I wouldn’t be afraid to promise that you could fill St. John’s, forbidding as its atmosphere is to the average working-man, the very next Sunday after such a visitation.”

Now this young zealot was a man of imagination, hidebound only in his traditions.  Also, he was not above taking ideas where he found them.

“Really, Miss Dabney, I’m not sure but you have hold of the matter at the practical end,” he conceded.  “I—­I’d like to talk with you further about it, when we have time.  Do you suppose I could get permission to go into the mines during working-hours?”

“Certainly you could—­for the mere asking.  We can speak to Mr. Caleb Gordon about it after breakfast, if you wish.  My! doesn’t that rain sting!  I’m glad we are at home.”

“Yes; and it is freezing as it falls.  At home in New England we should say it was too cold to rain.”