“The danger of His coming to a world in which none should know Him,” was the final clause of the vicar’s sermon. That would be the supreme tragedy. The sudden striking of the clock on the chimneypiece startled the vicar. “Four o’clock!” he said. And he went to bed. XIV MR. PERRY-HENNINGTON was troubled by many things, but he was tired out by his long day and fell asleep at once. He was still sleeping when Prince, the parlor maid, brought him a cup of tea at a quarter to seven. Another trying day was upon him. He had to take three services, and to give the children’s address in a neighboring parish in the afternoon. A hard but uninspired worker, he never flinched from his duty, but did the task next him. It pleased him to think that he got things done, and, like all men of his type, never allowed himself to doubt for a moment that they were worth the doing. At the morning service Mr. Perry-Hennington preached a sermon that had done duty on many occasions. It was his custom to keep the new discourse for the evening, when the congregation was larger as a rule. “He came to His own and His own knew him not,” was the text of the morning homily. It had always been one of his favorites, and every time he rendered it he found some new embroidery to weave upon that poignant theme. And this morning, in the emotional stress of a recent event which lurked a shadow at the back of his thoughts, his mind played upon it with a vigor that surprised even himself. He was at his best. Such a feeling of power came upon him as he had seldom known. While the last hymn was being sung the vicar’s eyes strayed to the back of the church. He was surprised and a little disconcerted to see John Smith standing there. The young man was singing heartily, and as the bright rays from the window fell upon his face it became a center of light. Yet that unexpected presence cast a shadow across the vicar’s mind. It was as if a cloud had suddenly darkened the sun. At the end of the service Mr. Perry-Hennington was the last to leave the church. By the time he had taken off his vestments the small congregation had dispersed. But one member of it still lingered near the lich gate, at the end of the churchyard, and as the vicar came down the path this person stopped him. A rather odd-looking man wearing a white hat, he gave the vicar an impression of being overdressed, but his strong face had an individuality that would have commanded notice anywhere. This man, who had been scanning the tombstones in the churchyard, had evidently stayed behind to speak to the vicar. Yet he was a total stranger to the neighborhood, whose presence among his flock Mr. Perry-Hennington had noted that morning for the first time. At the vicar’s slow approach the man in the white hat came forward with a hearty outstretched hand. “Delighted to meet you, sir,” he said.