“Well, most of the leading citizens go there now,” he answered, politely ignoring my uncalled-for irony. “Men who never went to church before; the men who do things in Warburton. Our minister’s the best preacher in the diocese. His subject this morning is ‘The Prodigal Son.’” I felt guiltily that the topic might have been chosen providentially to mark my return, and it occurred to me that this might be a good chance to see Warburton in its best bib and tucker. However, having planned to spend the morning in the slum which the town had acquired with its prosperity, I hardened my heart against the young solicitor, in spite of his unobtrusive and courteous manner of extending the invitation. “You represent a saint’s church,” I remarked, glancing at the card. “I travel a good deal and I haven’t found a church specially designed for sinners like me. I’m uncomfortable among the saints. I’m not quarrelling with your church or its name, but I’ve long had a feeling that our church nomenclature needs revision. Still, that’s a personal matter. You’ve done your duty by me, and I’d be glad to come if I didn’t have another engagement.” The pages of a Chicago morning newspaper that lay across my knees probably persuaded him that I was lying. However, after a moment’s hesitation he sat down beside me. “That’s funny, what you said about a church for sinners--but we have one right here in Warburton; odd you never heard of it! It was written up in the newspapers a good deal. It’s just across the street from St. John’s on Water Street.” I recalled now that I had seen a strange church in my walk to the hotel, but the new St. John’s had so absorbed my attention that I had passed it with only a glance. It came back to me that it was a white wooden structure, and that boards were nailed across its pillared portico as though to shut out the public while repairs were in progress. “Saints excluded, sinners only need apply?” He nodded, and looked at me queerly, as though, now that I had broached the matter, he considered the advisability of telling me more. It was ten o’clock and half a dozen church-bells clanged importunately as a background for the _Adeste Fideles_ rung from St. John’s chimes. “‘The Church For Honest Sinners,’ might suit you, only it’s closed--closed for good, I guess,” he remarked, again scrutinizing me closely.