As Philip entered on the week's work after that eventful sermon he began
to feel the pressure of public feeling against him. He began to realize
the bitterness of championing a just cause alone. He felt the burden of
the community's sin in the matter, and more than once he felt obliged to
come in from his parish work and go up into his study there to commune
with his Father. He was growing old very fast in these first few weeks
in his new parish.

Tuesday evening of that week Philip had been writing a little while in
his study, where he had gone immediately after supper. It was nearly
eight o'clock when he happened to remember that he had promised a sick
child in the home of one of his parishioners that he would come and see
him that very day.

He came downstairs, put on his hat and overcoat, and told his wife where
he was going.

"It's not far. I shall be back in about half an hour, Sarah."

He went out, and his wife held the door open until he was down the
steps. She was just on the point of shutting the door as he started down
the sidewalk when a sharp report rang out close by. She screamed and
flung the door open again, as by the light of the street lamp she saw
Philip stagger and then leap into the street toward an elm-tree which
grew almost opposite the parsonage. When he was about in the middle of
the street she was horrified to see a man step out boldly from behind
the tree, raise a gun, and deliberately fire at Philip again. This time
Philip fell and did not rise. His tall form lay where the rays of the
street lamp shone on it and he had fallen so that as his arms stretched