which, as Tolstoi long ago said, our present life is but a dream. Even
when he was uttering truths he spoke them as if he had an uneasy
suspicion that they were lies. At moments he seemed to be almost
pleading with his hearers to tolerate him, to "bear with him." Indeed,
several times during his disjointed remarks he made use of the latter
expression, promising that his discourse should be a short one. Very
carefully he included himself among those aware of sin, very humbly he
declared the unworthiness of any man to set himself up as a teacher and
leader of others.

Now, humility is all very well, but if carried to excess, it suggests
something less than a man. Mr. Harding almost cringed before his
congregation. Malling did not feel that his humility was a pretense.
On the contrary, it struck him as abominably real, but so excessive as
to be not natural in any thorough man in a normal condition of mind and
of body. It was the sort of humility that creates in the unregenerate a
desire to offer a good kicking as a corrective.

Very different was the effect created by Chichester's sermon in the
evening. Malling, aware though he had become of the great strengthening
of Chichester, was amazed when he heard him preach.

Often it is said of a very fine preacher that he preached as one
inspired. Chichester preached as one who knew. Never before had Malling
been so impressed with the feeling that he was listening to truth,
absolute truth, as he was while he listened to Chichester. There was
something, though, that was almost deadly about it. It pierced like a
lancet. It seared like a red-hot iron. It humbled almost too much.
Here was no exaggerated humility, no pleading to be borne with, no
cringing, and no doubt. A man who knew was standing up, and, with a