“And what became of the man?” asked Philip, still inclined to think that his wife had in some way fallen asleep and dreamed at least a part of this strange scene, perhaps before she went up to the study and discovered the letters.

“I don’t know; maybe he is in the house yet.  Philip, I am almost dead for fear—­not for myself, but for your life.”

“I never had any fear of anonymous letters or of threats,” replied Philip, contemptuously eyeing the knife, which was still sticking in the desk.  “Evidently the saloon men think I am a child to be frightened with these bugaboos, which have figured in every sensational story since the time of Captain Kidd.”

“Then you think this is the work of the saloon men?”

“Who else can it be?  We have no other enemies of this sort in Milton.”

“But they will kill you!  Oh, Philip, I cannot bear the thought of living here in this way.  Let us leave this dreadful place!”

“Little woman,” said Philip, while he bravely drove away any slight anxiety he may have had for himself, “don’t you think it would be cowardly to run away so soon?”

“Wouldn’t it be better to run away so soon than to be killed?  Is there any bravery in staying in a place where you are likely to be murdered by some coward?”

“I don’t think I shall be,” said Philip, confidently.  “And I don’t want you to be afraid.  They will not dare to harm you.”

“No, Philip!” exclaimed his wife, eagerly; “you must not be mistaken.  I did not faint away to-night because I was afraid for myself.  Surely I have no fear there.  It was the thought of the peril in which you stand daily as you go out among these men, and as you go back and forth to your meetings in the dark.  I am growing nervous and anxious ever since the shooting; and when I was startled by the man here to-night I was so weak that I fainted.  But I am sure that they do not care to harm me; you are the object of their hatred.  If they strike any one it will be you.  That is the reason I want you to leave this place.  Say you will, Philip.  Surely there are other churches where you could preach as you want to, and still not be in such constant danger.”

It required all of Philip’s wisdom and love and consciousness of his immediate duty to answer his wife’s appeal and say no to it.  It was one of the severest struggles he ever had.  There was to be taken into the account not only his own safety, but that of his wife as well.  For, think what he would, he could not shake off the feeling that a man so cowardly as to resort to the assassination of a man would not be over particular even if it should chance to be a woman.  Philip was man enough to be entirely unshaken by anonymous threats.  A thousand a day would not have unnerved him in the least.  He would have writhed under the sense of the great sin which they revealed, but that is all the effect they would have had.

When it came to his wife, however, that was another question.  For a moment he felt like sending in his resignation and moving out of Milton as soon as possible.  But he finally decided that he ought to remain; and Mrs. Strong did not oppose his decision when once he had declared his resolve.  She knew Philip must do what to him was the will of his Master, and with that finally she was content.