"True; but then I would not be any longer a Methodist preacher. A Methodist pastor is a solecism; Methodism is a moving evangelism. When it settles down for a life pastorate it will need a new name." "However, Mr. North, it seems to me, that a preacher should bring every possible adjunct to aid him. The advantages of a reputation for piety, wisdom, and social sympathy are quite denied to a man who is only a preacher." "He has the cross of Christ. It needs no aid of wealth, or wisdom, or social sympathy. It is enough for salvation. The banner of the Methodist preacher is that mighty angel flying over land and sea, and having the everlasting Gospel to preach!" His enthusiasm had carried him away. He sighed, and continued, "But I judge no man. There must be pastors as well as preachers. I was sent to preach." For a moment there was silence, then the fine instinct of Phyllis perceived that the conversation had reached exactly that point when it demanded relief in order to effect its best ends. She went to the piano and began to sing softly some tender little romance of home and home joys. In the midst of it the squire and Elizabeth entered, and the conversation turned upon Christmas observances. So, it fell out naturally enough that Phyllis should speak of her southern home, and describe the long rows of white cabins among the live oaks, and the kind-hearted dusky dwellers in them; and, finally, as she became almost tearful over her memories, she began to sing one of the "spirituals," then so totally unknown beyond plantation life, singing it _sotto voce_, swaying her body gently to the melody, and softly clapping her small hands as an accompaniment: "My soul! Massa Jesus! My soul! My soul! Dar's a little thing lays in my heart, An' de more I dig him, de better he spring: My soul! Dar's a little thing lays in my heart, An' he set my soul on fire: My soul! Massa Jesus! My soul! My soul!" Then changing the time and tune, she continued: "De water deep, de water cold, Nobody here to help me! O de water rise! De water roll! Nobody here to help me! Dear Lord, Nobody here to help me!" She had to sing them and many others over and over. Mr. North's eyes were full of tears, and the rector hid his face in his hands. As for the squire, he sat looking at her with wonder and delight. "Why did ta nivver sing them songs afore, Phyllis? I nivver heard such music." "It never has been written down, uncle." "Who made it up for 'em?" "It was never made. It sprung from their sorrows and their captivity. The slave's heart was the slave's lyre." They talked until a deputation came from the servant's hall and asked for Mr. North. They belonged to the Christmas waits, and if he was going back to the village they wished to accompany him home; an offer he readily accepted.