“Blasphemer.” he said with growing passion, “how dare you parody the words of the Master?” “No one can parody the words of the Master. Either they are or they are not.” “I am not here to argue with you. Understand, John Smith, that in all circumstances I decline to chop logic with--with a person of your sort.” It added to this young man’s offense in the eyes of the vicar that he had presumed to address him as an intellectual equal. It was true that in a way of delicate irony, which even Mr. Perry-Hennington was not too dense to perceive, this extraordinary person deferred continually to the social and mental status of his questioner. It was the manner of one engaged in rendering to Cæsar the things that are Cæsar’s, but every word masked by the gentle voice was so subtly provocative that Mr. Perry-Hennington felt a secret humiliation in submitting to them. The implication made upon his mind was that the rôle of teacher and pupil had been reversed. This unpleasant feeling was aggravated to the point of the unbearable by John Smith’s next words. “Judge not,” he said softly. “Once priests judged Jesus Christ.” The vicar recoiled. “Abominable!” he said, and he clenched his fists as if he would strike him. “Blasphemer!” The young man smiled sadly. “I only speak the truth,” he said. “If it wounds you, sir, the fault is not mine.” Mr. Perry-Hennington made a stern effort to keep himself in hand. It was unseemly to bandy words with a man of this kind. Yet, as he belonged to the parish, the vicar in a sense was responsible for him; therefore it became his duty to find out what was at the back of his mind. Curbing as well as he could an indignation that threatened every moment to pass beyond control, he called upon John Smith to explain himself. “You say you only speak the truth as it has been shown you. First I would ask whence it comes, and then I would ask how do you know it for the truth?” “It has been communicated by the Father.” “Don’t be so free with the name of God,” said the vicar sternly. “And I, at any rate, take leave to doubt it.” “There is a voice I hear within me. And being divine it speaks only the truth.” “How do you know it is divine?” “How do I know the grass is green, the sky blue, the heather purple? How do I know the birds sing?” “That is no answer,” said the vicar. “It is open to anyone to claim a divine voice within did not modesty forbid.” The smile of John Smith was so sweetly simple that it could not have expressed an afterthought. “Had you a true vocation,” he said, “would you find such uses for your modesty?”