“Sometimes I almost think I missed my calling,” said Philip, purposely talking about himself in order to make his wife come to the defense.  “I ought to have been a locomotive fireman.”

“The idea, Philip Strong!  A man who has the gift of reaching people with preaching the way you do!”

“The way I reach Mr. Winter, for example!”

“Yes,” said his wife, “the way you reach him.  Why, the very fact that you made such a man angry is pretty good proof that you reached him.  Such men are not touched by any ordinary preaching.”

“So you really think I have a little gift at preaching?” asked Philip, slyly.

“A little gift!  It is a great deal more than a little, Philip.”

“Aren’t you a little prejudiced, Sarah?”

“No, sir.  I am the severest critic you ever have in the congregation.  If you only knew how nervous you sometimes make me!—­when you get started on some exciting passage and make a gesture that would throw a stone image into a fit, and then begin to speak of something in a different way, like another person, and the first I know I am caught up and hurled into the subject, and forget all about you.”

“Thank you,” said Philip.

“What for?” asked his wife, laughing.  “For forgetting you?”

“I would rather be forgotten by you than remembered by any one else,” replied Philip, gallantly.  “And you are such a delightful little flatterer that I feel courage for anything that may happen.”

“It’s not flattery; it’s truth, Philip.  I do believe in you and your work; and I am only anxious that you should succeed here.  I can’t bear to think of trouble in the church.  It would almost kill me to go through such times as we sometimes read about.”

“We must leave results to God.  I am sure we are not responsible for more than our utmost doing and living of necessary truth.”  Philip spoke courageously.

“Then you don’t feel disheartened by this morning’s work?”

“No, I don’t know that I do.  I’m very sensitive, and I feel hurt at Mr. Winter’s threat of withdrawing his support; but I don’t feel disheartened for the work.  Why should I?  Am I not doing my best?”

“I believe you are.  Only, dear Philip, be wise.  Do not try to reform everything in a week, or expect people to grow their wings before they have started even pin-feathers.  It isn’t natural.”

“Well, I won’t,” replied Philip, with a laugh.  “Better trim your wings, Sarah; they’re dragging on the floor.”

He hunted up his hat, which was one of the things Philip could never find twice in the same place, kissed his wife, and went out to make the visit at the mill which he was getting ready to make when Mr. Winter called.