"Brother Man," said Philip, cheerily, "come in and rest yourself." "Can you keep me over night?" The question was put wistfully. Philip was struck by the difference between this almost shrinking request and the self-invitation of a month before. "Yes, indeed! We have one spare room for you. You are welcome. Come in." So they went in, and after tea the two sat down together while Mrs. Strong was busy in the kitchen. A part of this conversation was afterward related by the minister to his wife; a part of it he afterward said was unreportable----the manner of tone, the inflection, the gesture of his remarkable guest no man could reproduce. "You have moved since I saw you last," said the visitor. "Yes," replied Philip. "You did not expect me to act on your advice so soon?" "My advice?" The question came in a hesitating tone. "Did I advise you to move? Ah, yes, I remember!" A light like supremest reason flashed over the man's face, and then died out. "Yes, yes; you are beginning to live on your simpler basis. You are doing as you preach. That must feel good." "Yes," replied Philip, "it does feel good. Do you think, Brother Man, that this will help to solve the problem?" "What problem?" "Why, the problem of the church and the people--winning them, saving them." "Are your church members moving out of their elegant houses and coming down here to live?" The old man asked the question in utmost simplicity. "No; I did not ask them." "You ought to." "What! Do you believe my people ought literally to leave their possessions and live among the people?" Philip could not help asking the question, and all the time he was conscious of a strange absurdity mingled with an unaccountable respect for his visitor, and his opinion. "Yes," came the reply, with the calmness of light. "Christ would demand it if he were pastor of Calvary Church in this age. The church members, the Christians in this century, must renounce all that they have, or they cannot be his disciples." Philip sat profoundly silent. The words spoken so quietly by this creature tossed upon his own soul like a vessel in a tempest. He dared not say anything for a moment. The Brother Man looked over and said at last: "What have you been preaching about since you came here?" "A great many things." "What are some of the things you have preached about?" "Well," Philip clasped his hands over his knees; "I have preached about the right and wrong uses of property, the evil of the saloon, the Sunday as a day of rest and worship, the necessity of moving our church building down into this neighborhood, the need of living on a simpler basis, and, lastly, the true work of a church in these days." "Has your church done what you have wished?" "No," replied Philip, with a sigh. "Will it do what you preach ought to be done?" "I do not know." "Why don't you resign?"