By the time the spring came again, it had become quite customary for Mr. Clare to preach at least once on Sunday at St. Andrew’s, and the rector had been nearly satisfied that such Socialism as his colleague was at all likely to preach was very harmless Socialism, indeed, scarcely deserving the name. Also, the rector was inclined to look through very rose-colored glasses at one who could bring to church such a stiff-necked generation as Dr. Richards and Karl Metzerott, even though the former might come partly for love of his wife and son, and the latter chiefly through jealousy of the preacher’s influence on Louis and at “Prices,” where the Emperor had begun to feel bitterly conscious of a rival. Yet Mr. Clare put forward no claim either to supremacy or even influence; it was simply the effect of his personality that brought such crowds to St. Andrew’s, and made his lightest word a command to his friends and followers at “Prices.” So, at least, said Karl Metzerott; perhaps the truth was that Ernest Clare’s personality was as nearly transparent as is possible to human nature; it was not himself, but the truth that was in him, of which all round felt the power. But it is a question whether a due appreciation of this fact would have retarded the growth of the unfriendly feeling whereof Karl had only just begun to be conscious. Nevertheless, “Prices,” hitherto so united, had begun to show signs of splitting into two camps. There was no open division, but the waters were troubled by the Spirit of God, and the word had gone forth amongst them, “If the Lord be God, then follow Him: but if Baal, then follow him.” Mr. Clare’s lectures, as they were called, on Sunday evening were overwhelmingly well attended, though the magnificent rendering of chorus, hymn, and anthem, that accompanied them, doubtless formed no unimportant part of the attraction. There were no formal prayers, an omission that scandalized some excellent people, including the Herr Pastor Schaefer, who took the duty upon himself to remonstrate with the delinquent. Mr. Clare’s reply was somewhat singular. “‘Prayer is the soul’s sincere desire, Uttered or unexpressed, The motion of a hidden fire That trembles in the breast.’ “If the hidden fire be not there, Herr Pastor,” he said, “how can it possibly tremble? If it be, the music will supply all it can ask; and if it be only a spark, I don’t want to extinguish it by the cold water of criticism.” “But I do not understand you at all, Mr. Clare,” was the reply; “surely it is every one’s duty to pray.” “You have been with them nearly twenty years, my friend; have they ever prayed with you?” “It is quite true,” said the pastor, in genuine trouble and perplexity, “that religion seems to have little power over men in these days. Very few men ever pray at all; but it is not my fault: I pray _with_ them, or offer to do so; and there my responsibility ends.”