One day we had a call from a missionary, a very little, pawky sort of man, yet in the gelatine stage. He wore a black stuffy coat reaching to his feet as to make up by it, what nature had stinted him in stature, and it was buttoned close to his throat, reminding me of the scabs in London who follow a similar fashion to conceal their lack of shirt. His face and head were not as good a recommendation as his clothes. He certainly was not the survival of the fittest, only an exception to it. My wife, after seeing and hearing him for a few minutes, remarked afterward, with the instinct of a woman, that he would never die of brain fever. After seating himself he said that he had often heard of me. I felt that this was something in my favor at least, for what can happen to any mortal man worse than not to have been heard of? He said that he had never called because he had heard that I seldom attended church, and that I was, well, to state it plainly, not quite orthodox. Such a statement from such a popinjay was amusing. I gravely suggested that if he considered me the lost sheep he should have left the ninety-and-nine safe in the fold and sought after me. “Well,” said he, “I hope it is not too late, and I trust you are not as bad as they make you out to be.” This was encouraging, and I was hopeful. I inquired in what respect I was said to be bad. I was becoming interested, as if in the presence of a fortune-teller. He did not seem to know what to say, so I asked, “Do they say I lie, steal, commit murder, gamble, slander, defraud, get drunk or run after women?” “No,” he quickly replied, “nothing of the kind. You have the reputation of being about the most upright man in the station, and very kind to the poor; that no one comes to you but finds a friend.” He would have seen my blushes at these compliments to my virtues if nature had not enabled me to hide them. I made up my mind at once to give him a subscription to the paper I felt sure he had in his pocket. Here let me observe that I am not at all opposed to subscriptions, for I believe a thousand times more in paying than in praying, and if I were to make a church catechism I would place as the first question, “How much do you pay?” and the very last one, “Do you pray?” In most people the nerves of the pocket are more sensitive than those of the heart, and should be touched first. I said, “I am greatly obliged to you for so good a character, though I do not see where the badness comes in.” He replied, “That is not it. It is not what you are, or what you do, but what you believe. They say that you do not believe in Jesus.” “That is a great mistake,” I answered. “I do most profoundly believe in him, that he was the best man that ever lived, the wisest teacher that the world has ever seen, and in that respect the light of the world, the Savior of mankind if they follow his example.” “That is it, you do not believe that Jesus was the son of God.”