There were, indeed, a few letters which he laid, thankfully, in a pile by themselves.  These were mostly from certain humble members of his parish who had not followed their impulses to go to him after the service, or from strangers who had chanced to drop into the church.  Some were autobiographical, such as those of a trained nurse, a stenographer, a hardware clerk who had sat up late Sunday night to summarize what that sermon had meant to him, how a gray and hopeless existence had taken on a new colour.  Next Sunday he would bring a friend who lived in the same boarding house . . . .  Hodder read every word of these, and all were in the same strain:  at last they could perceive a meaning to religion, an application of it to such plodding lives as theirs . . . .

One or two had not understood, but had been stirred, and were coming to talk to him.  Another was filled with a venomous class hatred. . . .

The first intimation he had of the writer of another letter seemed from the senses rather than the intellect.  A warm glow suffused him, mounted to his temples as he stared at the words, turned over the sheet, and read at the bottom the not very legible signature.  The handwriting, by no means classic, became then and there indelibly photographed on his brain, and summed up for him the characteristics, the warring elements in Alison Parr.  “All afternoon,” she wrote, “I have been thinking of your sermon.  It was to me very wonderful—­it lifted me out of myself.  And oh, I want so much to believe unreservedly what you expressed so finely, that religion is democracy, or the motive power behind democracy—­the service of humanity by the reborn.  I understand it intellectually.  I am willing to work for such a Cause, but there is something in me so hard that I wonder if it can dissolve.  And then I am still unable to identify that Cause with the Church as at present constituted, with the dogmas and ceremonies that still exist.  I am too thorough a radical to have your patience.  And I am filled with rage—­I can think of no milder word—­on coming in contact with the living embodiments of that old creed, who hold its dogmas so precious.  ’Which say to the seers, See not; and to the prophets, Prophesy not unto us right things, speak unto us smooth things, prophesy deceits.’”

“You see, I have been reading Isaiah, and when I came to that paragraph it seemed so appropriate.  These people have always existed.  And will they not always continue to exist?  I wish I could believe, wholly and unreservedly, that this class, always preponderant in the world, could be changed, diminished—­done away with in a brighter future!  I can, at least, sympathize with Isaiah’s wrath.

“What you said of the longing, the yearning which exists to-day amongst the inarticulate millions moved me most—­and of the place of art in religion, to express that yearning.  Religion the motive power of art, and art, too, service.  ‘Consider the lilies of the field.’  You have made it, at least, all-comprehensive, have given me a new point of view for which I can never be sufficiently grateful—­and at a time when I needed it desperately.  That you have dared to do what you have done has been and will be an inspiration, not only to myself, but to many others.  This, is a longer letter, I believe, than I have ever written in my life.  But I wanted you to know.”