One day I was sitting in the apparently deserted library, looking over the new books which were always kept on a side shelf, at the entrance to one of the alcoves, when I heard a heavy, most disconsolate sigh, coming from a hidden corner in the rear of the room. The sigh was followed by the rustling of book leaves. I continued my investigation of the new books, but was once more interrupted by that same, prolonged sighing. It was just such a sigh as Dante must have heard proceeding from the lips of those unfortunate creatures who stood in neither hope nor despair. I decided to investigate, and, for that purpose, went down the alcove from which the sighing seemed to have come, and there, with his back turned to me, seated at one of the reference tables, with his head resting woefully on his spread out arms, sat Amos Tucker, an upper-classman. I hesitated to approach him, at first, and pretended that I had come into the alcove for a book. Then again the sigh proceeded from the limp heap at the table, and, throwing all restraint to the winds, I went to the table, touched Amos on the shoulder, and said, “Are you in trouble, Tucker?” He raised his tearful, grey eyes to me, and said, “They say I’m not fit to be a preacher!” I sat down beside him, for from his manner I knew that he welcomed me to be his confidant. “Who says so? Any of the students?” I asked. “No, it wouldn’t matter if it came from them: the church says so!” “What church is that, Tucker?” He sat up in his chair and replied, “I have just started to preach, this year. I have been out for two Sundays in a little place where they give me seven dollars, out of which I have to pay a dollar and a half for expenses. It’s not that I care a snap about the money, though, but I want a place to call my parish. I feel that I ought to preach. Well, I’ve got a letter from the committee this morning, telling me that they will have to get along without me; that they cannot have me any longer for their minister.” “What reasons do they offer?” “That’s it!” he responded, with a catch in his voice, “they have had the bravery to tell me the exact reason. It is this: they tell me--oh, hadn’t you better read for yourself,” and he handed me the last page of a letter, explaining, “It’s all on that one page: all that you want to know.” I read: “You can never make a preacher, we feel--excuse us for telling you so frankly--you have no voice, you do not read well, your grammar is poor, your themes are not interesting. Your last Sunday morning’s talk on ‘Conscience’ was beyond our understanding. Several good supporters have threatened to forego their subscriptions if we have you another Sunday. Will you kindly suggest some one to come to us next Sunday and oblige, yours in Christian sincerity, etc.” “Blunt, isn’t it?” he half smiled. “The idea of asking you to send them somebody, after that!” I gasped. “Oh,” he sniffed, “it’s all in Christian sincerity, you know!”