“Now the majority of travellers, as I was saying,” continued the minister, “are just hurried over the viaduct, causing us nothing but distraction and annoyance, but a pedestrian like yourself really sees the place, and cheers the day for us and brings us something to think about.” “I spent the first thirteen years of my life in a country rectory,” said Ralph. “And remember what a quiet time we had.” “And are you studying for the ministry?” asked the old man. “No,” said Ralph. “My guardian gave me the chance of doing that, but I think you will agree that one can’t be a parson just for the sake of earning a living.” “Certainly not, sir, certainly not. You are quite in the right. No man should take up such work without a clear call; far better seek some other profession.” “That is what I did,” said Ralph, colouring a little. “But I know very well that you’ll not approve of my profession. I am an actor, and am on my way now to Stirling where I hope to hear of a fresh engagement either at Edinburgh or at Glasgow.” Surprise, consternation, regret, were plainly visible in the old man’s face. He said nothing for a moment, it bewildered him to find that this young fellow with his straightforward manner and ingenuous modesty, should have anything to do with the stage. “I am thinking that you will be asking me as you did of the viaduct--may not the skill of man be taken as one of God’s works?” he said, thoughtfully. “And I’m fain to confess that I have ever considered theatres as the highway to hell, and actors as so many servants of the devil. May God forgive me if I have failed in charity and dealt out harsh judgment to them.” So they fell into talk together, and Ralph told of the landlady who had shut the door in his face, and assumed that he was no Christian. He told of some of the arrangements at the two theatres in London with which he was acquainted. He told more than one story which he had heard from Myra Kay of the good that Hugh Macneillie had done. And the old minister listened and pondered these strange sayings in his heart, looking all the time with a sort of wistfulness at the fresh, hopeful face opposite him--a face which somehow haunted him long after Ralph had left the Manse. “He had been through a hard apprenticeship, and I doubt he had little enough in his pockets,” reflected the old man as he paced the bare, little parlour. “He’d been defrauded of his pay and had looked on the evil as well as on the good, but still he pleaded like a born advocate for his calling--his art; and spite of his troubles there was a blithe look in his face which sore perplexes me.” He walked to and fro many times, finally he took a Bible from the shelf and turned over the pages until he came to the words he sought. They were these: “The joy of the Lord is your strength.”