Sarah came in and sat down.  It was dark.  The year was turning into the softer months of spring, and all the out-door world had been a benediction that evening if the sorrow and poverty and sin of the tenement district so near had not pervaded the very walls and atmosphere of the entire place.  The minister’s wife answered bravely:  “Yes, we have food and clothing and life’s necessaries.  But, oh, Philip! this life is wearing you out.  Yes, Brother Man.” she continued, while a tear rolled over her cheek, “the minister is giving his life blood for these people, and they do not care.  It is a vain sacrifice.”  She had spoken as frankly as if the old man had been her father.  There was a something in him which called out such confidence.

Mr. Strong soothed his wife, clasping her to him tenderly.  “There, Sarah, you are nervous and tired.  I am a little discouraged, but strong and hearty for the work.  Brother Man, you must not think we regret your advice.  We have been blessed by following it.”

And then their remarkable guest stretched out his arms through the gathering gloom in the room and seemed to bless them.  Later in the evening he again called for a Bible, and offered a prayer of wondrous sweetness.  He was shown to his plainly-furnished room.  He looked around and smiled.

“This is like my old home,” he said; “a palace, where the poor die of hunger.”

Philip started at the odd remark, then recollected that the old man had once been wealthy, and sometimes in his half-dazed condition Philip thought probable he confounded the humblest surroundings with his once luxurious home.  He lingered a moment, and the man said, as if speaking to himself:  “If they do not renounce all they have, they cannot be my disciples.”

“Good-night, Brother Man.” cried Philip, as he went out.

“Good-night, Christ’s man,” replied his guest.  And Philip went to his rest that night, great questions throbbing in him, and the demands of the Master more distinctly brought to his attention than ever.

Again, as before when he rose in the morning, he found that his visitor was gone.  His eccentric movements accounted his sudden disappearances, but they were disappointed.  They wanted to see their guest again and question him about his history.  They promised themselves he would do so next time.

The following Sunday Philip preached one of those sermons which come to a man once or twice in a whole ministry.  It was the last Sunday of the month, and not a special occasion.  But there had surged into his thought the meaning of the Christian life with such uncontrollable power that his sermon reached hearts never before touched.  He remained at the close of the service to talk with several young men, who seemed moved as never before.  After they had gone away he went into his own room back of the platform to get something he had left there, and to his surprise found the church sexton kneeling down by one of the chairs.  As the minister came in the man rose and turned toward him.