“I have written a letter to my deacon--about Tucker and the tight place he’s in,” explained Burner. “Told him all the facts and asked him to work with us to save a good man for the Lord’s cause. After his sermon, no matter how good or ill it is, Deacon Herring will go up to Tucker with a radiant face, tell him how glad they are to have him along, and invite him to preach the following Sunday. Meanwhile the deacon will forward to me a carefully written, frank criticism of Tucker, from which we can diagnose his troubles, fairly, and then get some of the professors to work on his case. Oh,” and Burner’s face was gleaming, “I guess if there’s any good points under Tucker’s skin, we’ll uncover them!” It was an unusual edition of Tucker who returned the following day. I walked with him, arm in arm over to the Commons. “There, Priddy,” he chattered, “at last I’ve found somebody who thinks I’m called to preach. They want me to supply Burner’s pulpit again next Sunday! He’s to have another day off. Tired, he told me. That’s the best sort of appreciation, isn’t it?” he added. Burner said nothing to me or any one else about the personal sacrifice he made in giving up two Sundays to the discouraged Tucker, but I knew that the money he gave up was much needed. Burner, meanwhile, received the diagnosis from his deacon, and reported matters to one of the professors to whom Tucker looked with great reverence and respect. The result of this came out in a diplomatic invitation, sent by the professor, for Tucker to come and have a talk about his affairs--a perfectly natural request for the professor to make. It did not take the professor long--armed as he was by Burner’s report-to get from Tucker a statement of his situation. Finally, the professor set himself to work, not only on the written sermons of Tucker, but also on his enunciation, his gestures, and his habits of thought. “The professor’s helping me wonderfully,” exclaimed Tucker to me one day, as we took a walk into the outskirts of the city. “He’s landed ker-plunk on my worst faults, just as if he could read me like a book. You’d laugh at the sort of mournful stuff I’ve been giving from the pulpit! It’s quite plain to me now. I’ve been too depressing. That’s been one thing. No wonder the people didn’t want some of the stuff I’ve been guilty of giving. It’s optimism they want, Priddy, _optimism_! The professor’s proved that, all right! Just you wait till next Sunday, when I preach for Burner. I’m to have a sermon, entitled, ‘Rejoice, and again I say, Rejoice!’” “What have you been preaching on, Tucker?” I asked. He smiled, as one who could afford now to smile at past faults. “Judgment, and Conscience, and the Inheritance of Penalty, and such-like,” he said. “Heavy, eh?” “I’ve no doubt you had some good ideas on those subjects, Tucker, though, as you say, they are a trifle doleful, one after the other.”