Well, my wife is calling me down to tea. Let me know what you do. We shall move to Milton next week, probably, so, if you write, direct there. As ever, your old chum, PHILIP STRONG.
It was characteristic of Philip that in this letter he said nothing about his call to Elmdale, and did not tell his college chum what salary was offered him by the church at Milton. As a matter of fact he really forgot all about everything, except the one important event of his decision to go to Milton. He regarded it, and rightly so, as the most serious step of his life; and while he had apparently decided the matter very quickly, it was, in reality, the result of a deep conviction that he ought to go. He was in the habit of making his decisions rapidly. This habit sometimes led him into embarrassing mistakes, and once in a great while resulted in humiliating reversals of opinion, so that people who did not know him thought he was fickle and changeable. In the present case, Philip acted with his customary quickness, and knew very well that his action was unalterable.
CHAPTER II.
Within a week, Philip Strong had moved to Milton, as the church wished him to occupy the pulpit at once. The parsonage was a well-planned house next the church, and his wife soon made everything look very homelike. The first Sunday evening after Philip preached in Milton, for the first time, he chatted with his wife over the events of the day as they sat before a cheerful open fire in the large grate. It was late in the fall and the nights were sharp and frosty.
"Are you tired to-night, Philip?" asked his wife.
"Yes, the day has been rather trying. Did you think I was nervous? Did I preach well?" Philip was not vain in the least. He simply put the question to satisfy his own exacting demand on himself in preaching. And there was not a person in the world to whom he would have put such a question except his wife.
"No, I thought you did splendidly. I felt proud of you. You made some queer gestures, and once you put one of your hands in your pocket. But your sermons were both strong and effective; I am sure the people were impressed. It was very still at both services."
Philip was silent a moment. And his wife went on.
"I am sure we shall like it here, Philip; what do you think?"
"I cannot tell yet. There is very much to do."
"How do you like the church building?"
"It is an easy audience room for my voice. I don't like the arrangement of the choir over the front door. I think the choir ought to be down on the platform in front of the people, by the side of the minister."
"That's one of your hobbies, Philip. But the singing was good, didn't you think so?"
"Yes, the choir is a good one. The congregation didn't seem to sing much, and I believe in Congregational singing, even when there is a choir. But we can bring that about in time, I think."
"Now, Philip," said his wife, in some alarm, "you are not going to meddle with the singing, are you? It will get you into trouble. There is a musical committee in the church, and such committees are very sensitive about any interference."
"Well," said Philip, rousing up a little, "the singing is a very important part of the service. And it seems to me I ought to have something important to say about it. But you need not fear, Sarah. I'm not going to try to change everything all at once."
His wife looked at him a little anxiously. She had perfect faith in Philip's honesty of purpose, but she sometimes had a fear of his impetuous desire to reform the world. After a little pause she spoke again, changing the subject.
"What did you think of the congregation, Philip?"
"I enjoyed it. I thought it was very attentive. There was a larger number out this evening than I had expected."
"Did you like the looks of the people?"
"They were all very nicely dressed."
"Now, Philip, you know that isn't what I mean. Did you like the people's faces?"
"You know I like all sorts and conditions of men."
"Yes, but there are audiences, and audiences. Do you think you will enjoy preaching to this one in Calvary Church?"
"I think I shall," replied Philip, but he said it in a tone that might have meant a great deal more. Again there was silence, and again the minister's wife was the first to break it.
"There was a place in your sermon to-night, Philip, where you appeared the least bit embarrassed; as you seem sometimes at home, when you have some writing or some newspaper article on your mind, and some one suddenly interrupts you with a question a good way from your thoughts. What was the matter? Did you forget a point?"
"No, I'll tell you. From where I stand on the pulpit platform, I can see through one of the windows over the front door. There is a large electric lamp burning outside, and the light fell directly on the sidewalk, across the street. From time to time groups of people went through that band of light. Of course I could not see their faces very well, but I soon found out that they were mostly the young men and women operatives of the mills. They were out strolling through the street, which, I am told, is a favorite promenade with them. I should think as many as two hundred passed by the church while I was preaching. Well, after awhile I began to ask myself whether there was any possible way of getting those young people to come into the church instead of strolling past? And then I looked at the people in front of me, and saw how different they were from those outside, and wondered if it wouldn't be better to close up the church and go and preach on the street where the people are. And so, carrying on all that questioning with myself, while I tried to preach, causing a little 'embarrassment,' as you kindly call it, in the sermon."
"I should think so! But how do you know, Philip, that those people outside were in any need of your preaching?"
Philip appeared surprised at the question. He looked at his wife, and her face was serious.
"Why, doesn't everybody need preaching? They may not stand in need of my preaching, perhaps, but they ought to have