But the people of Milton were deeply stirred by the address.  They were not in the habit of hearing that kind of preaching.  And what was more, the whisky element was roused.  It was not in the habit of having its authority attacked in that bold, almost savage manner.  For years its sway had been undisturbed.  It had insolently established itself in power until even these citizens who knew its thoroughly evil character were deceived into the belief that nothing better than licensing it was possible.  The idea that the saloon could be banished, removed, driven out altogether, had never before been advocated in Milton.  The conviction that whether it could be it ought to be suppressed had never gained ground with any number of people.  They had endured it as a necessary evil.  Philip’s sermon, therefore, fell something like a bomb into the whisky camp.  Before night the report of the sermon had spread all over the town.  The saloon men were enraged.  Ordinarily they would have paid no attention to anything a church or a preacher might say or do.  But Philip spoke from the pulpit of the largest church in Milton.  The whisky men knew that if the large churches should all unite to fight them they would make it very uncomfortable for them and in the end probably drive them out.  Philip went home that Sunday night after the evening service with several bitter enemies.  The whisky men contributed one element.  Some of his own church-members made up another.  He had struck again at the same sore spot which he had wounded the month before.  In his attack on the saloon as an institution he had again necessarily condemned all those members of his church who rented property to the whisky element.  Again, as a month ago, these property holders went from the hearing of the sermon angry that they as well as the saloon power were under indictment.

As Philip entered on the week’s work after that eventful sermon he began to feel the pressure of public feeling against him.  He began to realize the bitterness of championing a just cause alone.  He felt the burden of the community’s sin in the matter, and more than once he felt obliged to come in from his parish work and go up into his study there to commune with his Father.  He was growing old very fast in these first few weeks in his new parish.

Tuesday evening of that week Philip had been writing a little while in his study, where he had gone immediately after supper.  It was nearly eight o’clock when he happened to remember that he had promised a sick child in the home of one of his parishioners that he would come and see him that very day.

He came downstairs, put on his hat and overcoat, and told his wife where he was going.

“It’s not far.  I shall be back in about half an hour, Sarah.”