as he painfully resumed his seat the old look returned. As the close
of the Conference approached, I saw him several times with his head
bent over the back of the pew. It was on an evening very near the
close. The rays of the westering March sun shone through the windows
with a cold, cheerless light. His name was called. He raised his head.
His face was flushed. He struggled to his feet and with his crutches
hobbled around the aisle to the front of the pulpit, where he stood,
balancing himself on his crutches. And then the story came out. It was
told to those in the seats rather than to the Bishop. He had entered
the ministry young and had hoped to give his whole life to God. But
of late years disease had overtaken him. He had struggled against it
and tried to do his duty through great suffering, but lately he had
found that he could be of no further use and he asked--here he paused
and turned from the pews to the Bishop. It seemed that he was about
to say something that he had striven for years not to say. His eyes
filled and in a thick voice he said: "I ask to be put on the
superannuated list." And then he sat down on the nearest seat and wept
like a child. What it would have broken the heart of other men to have
staid in, it broke his heart to leave. I viewed him with intense
curiosity. Five or six of his brother ministers came up one by one,
and silently took hold of his twisted hands. I don't think they said
a word; I am sure he did not. He did not look at them, for his head
was buried on one of his cheap, home-made crutches, and from his pocket
he had taken a worn and faded handkerchief, with which he was checking
his tears. After he had gotten back to his pew, some ministers here
and there over the audience got up and testified to what the man had
been and what work he had done. Some of them had seen him, crippled
as he was and suffering the agony of rheumatism, driving miles through
the falling snow to fill an appointment to preach. Somehow it seemed
to me a eulogy of the dead--and it was. When I saw him the next morning