It is not certain that the Rev. Henry Maxwell knew just how he could carry on that thought in connection with his sermon, but as he drew near the end of it he knew that he had at some point in his delivery had all those feelings.  They had entered into the very substance of his thought; it might have been all in a few seconds of time, but he had been conscious of defining his position and his emotions as well as if he had held a soliloquy, and his delivery partook of the thrill of deep personal satisfaction.

The sermon was interesting.  It was full of striking sentences.  They would have commanded attention printed.  Spoken with the passion of a dramatic utterance that had the good taste never to offend with a suspicion of ranting or declamation, they were very effective.  If the Rev. Henry Maxwell that morning felt satisfied with the conditions of his pastorate, the First Church also had a similar feeling as it congratulated itself on the presence in the pulpit of this scholarly, refined, somewhat striking face and figure, preaching with such animation and freedom from all vulgar, noisy or disagreeable mannerism.

Suddenly, into the midst of this perfect accord and concord between preacher and audience, there came a very remarkable interruption.  It would be difficult to indicate the extent of the shock which this interruption measured.  It was so unexpected, so entirely contrary to any thought of any person present that it offered no room for argument or, for the time being, of resistance.

The sermon had come to a close.  Mr. Maxwell had just turned the half of the big Bible over upon his manuscript and was about to sit down as the quartet prepared to arise to sing the closing selection,

    “All for Jesus, all for Jesus,
     All my being’s ransomed powers...”

when the entire congregation was startled by the sound of a man’s voice.  It came from the rear of the church, from one of the seats under the gallery.  The next moment the figure of a man came out of the shadow there and walked down the middle aisle.

Before the startled congregation fairly realized what was going on the man had reached the open space in front of the pulpit and had turned about facing the people.

“I’ve been wondering since I came in here”—­they were the words he used under the gallery, and he repeated them—­“if it would be just the thing to say a word at the close of the service.  I’m not drunk and I’m not crazy, and I am perfectly harmless, but if I die, as there is every likelihood I shall in a few days, I want the satisfaction of thinking that I said my say in a place like this, and before this sort of a crowd.”

Henry Maxwell had not taken his seat, and he now remained standing, leaning on his pulpit, looking down at the stranger.  It was the man who had come to his house the Friday before, the same dusty, worn, shabby-looking young man.  He held his faded hat in his two hands.  It seemed to be a favorite gesture.  He had not been shaved and his hair was rough and tangled.  It is doubtful if any one like this had ever confronted the First Church within the sanctuary.  It was tolerably familiar with this sort of humanity out on the street, around the railroad shops, wandering up and down the avenue, but it had never dreamed of such an incident as this so near.