trial. To him it was the story of a Reformer who, eighteen
centuries ago, had served his day. Could he serve this day?
Could he? The need was desperate. Was there anything in this
Christianity, freed from bigotry, to work out the awful problem
which the ages had left for America to solve? He doubted it.
People called this old Knowles an infidel, said his brain was as
unnatural and distorted as his body. God, looking down into his
heart that night, saw the savage wrestling there, and judged him
with other eyes than theirs.

The story stood alive in his throbbing brain demanding hearing.
All things were real to this man, this uncouth mass of flesh that
his companions sneered at; most real of all, the unhelped pain of
life, the great seething mire of dumb wretchedness in streets and
alleys, the cry for aid from the starved souls of the world. You
and I have other work to do than to listen,--pleasanter. But he,
coming out of the mire, his veins thick with the blood of a
despised race, had carried up their pain and hunger with him: it
was the most real thing on earth to him,--more real than his own
share in the unseen heaven or hell. By the reality, the peril of
the world's instant need, he tried the offered help from Calvary.
It was the work of years, not of this night. Perhaps, if they
who preach Christ crucified had doubted him as this man did,
their work in the coming heaven might be higher,--and ours, who
hear them. When the girl had finished reading, she went out into
the cool air. The Doctor passed her without notice. He went, in
his lumbering way, down the hill into the city; glad to go; the
trustful, waiting quiet oppressed, taunted him. It sent him back
more mad against Destiny, his heart more bitter in its great
pity. Let him go to the great city, with its stifling