At uncertain periods Wesley Elliot had been visited by a migratory _colporteur_, and less frequently by impecunious persons representing themselves to be fellow warriors on the walls of Zion, temporarily out of ammunition. In the brief interval during which he convoyed the stranger from the chilly obscurity of the hall to the dubious comfort of his study, he endeavored to place his visitor in one of these two classes, but without success. “Didn’t stop for an umbrella,” explained the man, rubbing his hands before the stove, in which the minister was striving to kindle a livelier blaze. Divested of his dripping coat and hat he appeared somewhat stooped and feeble; he coughed slightly, as he gazed about the room. “What’s the matter here?” he inquired abruptly; “don’t they pay you your salary?” The minister explained in brief his slight occupancy of the parsonage; whereat the stranger shook his head: “That’s wrong—all wrong,” he pronounced: “A parson should be married and have children—plenty of them. Last time I was here, couldn’t hear myself speak there was such a racket of children in the hall. Mother sick upstairs, and the kids sliding down the banisters like mad. I left the parson a check; poor devil!” He appeared to fall into a fit of musing, his eyes on the floor. “I see you’re wondering who I am, young man,” he said presently. “Well, we’re coming to that, presently. I want some advice; so I shall merely put the case baldly.... I wanted advice, before; but the parson of that day couldn’t give me the right sort. Good Lord! I can see him yet: short man, rather stout and baldish. Meant well, but his religion wasn’t worth a bean to me that day.... Religion is all very well to talk about on a Sunday; broadcloth coat, white tie and that sort of thing; good for funerals, too, when a man’s dead and can’t answer back. Sometimes I’ve amused myself wondering what a dead man would say to a parson, if he could sit up in his coffin and talk five minutes of what’s happened to him since they called him dead. Interesting to think of—eh? ...Had lots of time to think.... Thought of most everything that ever happened; and more that didn’t.” “You are a stranger in Brookville, sir?” observed Wesley Elliot, politely. He had already decided that the man was neither a _colporteur_ nor a clerical mendicant; his clothes were too good, for one thing. The man laughed, a short, unpleasant sound which ended in a fit of coughing.