“Yes,” said Philip, as if continuing, “I have been thinking of leaving Milton.”

“That might be best.  You’re in danger here.  No telling when some harm may come to you.”

“Well, I’m thinking I might as well leave.  My work here has been a failure, anyway.”

“What!  A failure?  Mr. Strong, you don’t know the facts.  There has never been a minister in Milton who did so much for the poor and the working-man as yourself!  Let me tell you,” the man continued, with an earnestness that concealed an emotion he was trying to subdue, “Mr. Strong, if you were to leave Milton now, it would be a greater loss to the common people than you can imagine.  You may not know it, but your influence among us is very great.  I have lived in Milton as boy and man for thirty years, and I never knew so many laboring-men attend church and the lectures in the hall as during the few months you have been here.  Your work here has not been a failure; it has been a great success.”

A tear stole out of Philip’s eye and rolled down and fell with a warm splash on the letter which lay beside him.  If a $2,500 call could be drowned by one tear, that professorship in Sociology in Fairview Seminary was in danger.

“So you think the people in this neighborhood would miss me a little?” he asked almost as modestly as if he were asking a great favor.

“Would they, Mr. Strong!  You will never know what you have done for them.  If the mill-men were to hear of your leaving they would come down here in a body and almost compel you to stay.  I cannot bear to think of your going.  And yet the danger you are in, the whiskey men——­”

Philip roused himself up, interrupting his visitor.  The old-time flash of righteous indignation shot out of his eyes as he exclaimed:  “I am more than half-minded to stay on that account!  The rummies would think they had beaten me out if I left!”

“Oh, Mr. Strong, I can’t tell you how glad we would be if you would only stay!  And yet——­”

“And yet,” replied Philip, with a sad smile, “there are many things to take into the account.  I thank you out of my heart for the love you have shown me.  It means more than words can express.”  And Philip leaned back with a wearied look on his face, which, nevertheless, revealed his deep satisfaction at the thought of such friendship as this man had for him.

He was getting exhausted with the interview, following so soon on his illness of the night before.  The visitor was quick to notice it, and after a warm clasp of hands he went away.  Philip, lying there alone while his wife was busy downstairs, lived an age in a few minutes.  All his life so far in Milton, the events of his preaching and his experiences in the church, his contact with the workmen, his evident influence over them, the thought of what they would feel in case he left Milton to accept this new work, the dissatisfaction at the thought of an unaccomplished