He played nervously with a pack of cards similar to the one with which he had introduced himself. Other men, quite as unmistakably transients as I, were lounging down from breakfast, settling themselves to their newspapers, or seeking the barber-shop. Something in my attitude toward the church for which he was seeking worshippers seemed to arrest him. He was a handsome, clear-eyed, wholesome-looking young fellow, whose life had doubtless been well sheltered from evil; there was something refreshingly naïve about him. I liked his straightforward manner of appealing to strangers; a bank teller, perhaps, or maybe a clerk in the office of one of the manufacturing companies whose indifference to the welfare of their laborers I had come to investigate. Not the most grateful of tasks, this of passing church advertisements about in hotel lobbies on Sunday mornings. It requires courage, true manliness. My heart warmed to him as I saw a number of men eying us from the cigar-stand, evidently amused that the young fellow had cornered me. A member of the group, a stout gentleman in checks, held one of the cards in his hand and covertly pointed with it in our direction. “If there’s a story about the sinners’ church I’d like to hear it,” I remarked encouragingly. “It seemed to be closed--suppose they’re enlarging it to accommodate the rush.” “Well, no; hardly that,” he replied soberly. “It was built as an independent scheme--none of the denominations would stand for it of course.” “Why the ‘of course’?” “Well,” he smiled, “the idea of sin isn’t exactly popular, is it? And besides everybody isn’t wicked; there are plenty of good people. There’s good in all men,” he added, as though quoting. “I can’t quarrel with that. But how about this Church For Honest Sinners? Tell me the story.” “Well, it’s a queer sort of story, and as you’re a stranger and I’m not likely to meet you again, I’ll tell you all I know. It was built by a woman.” He crossed his legs and looked at the clock. “She was rich as riches go in a town like this. And she was different from other people. She was left a widow with about a hundred thousand dollars, and she set apart half of it to use in helping others. She wouldn’t do it through societies or churches; she did it all herself. She wasn’t very religious--not the way we use the word--not the usual sort of church woman who’s zealous in guilds and societies and enjoys running things. She wasn’t above asking the factory hands to her house now and then, and was always helping the under dog. She was splendid--the finest woman that ever lived; but of course people thought her queer.” “Such people are generally considered eccentric,” I commented. “The business men disliked her because they said she was spoiling the poor people and putting bad notions into their heads.” “I dare say they did! I can see that a woman like that would be criticised.”