its charm upon his impressionable nature, and after a couple of hours'
reading he closed the book comforted, and restored to his better self.
He fell on his knees and thanked God for this crowning mercy. From his
heart went forth a hymn of praise for the first time in long weeks. The
words of the Man of Sorrows had lifted him above the slough. The marvel
of it! How could he ever thank Him enough? His whole life should now be
devoted to setting forth the wonders of His grace. When he arose he felt
at peace with himself and full of goodwill to every one. He could even
think of Mrs. Hooper calmly--with pity and grave kindliness.

After his midday dinner and a brisk walk--he paid no attention to the
mail time--he prepared to write the sermon which he intended to preach
as his farewell to his congregation on the following Sunday. He was
determined now to leave Kansas City and go to Chicago. But as soon as he
began to consider what he should say, he became aware of a difficulty.
He could talk and write of accepting the "call" because it gave him "a
wider ministry," and so forth, but the ugly fact would obtrude itself
that he was relinquishing five thousand dollars a year to accept ten,
and he was painfully conscious that this knowledge would be uppermost in
the minds of his hearers. Most men in his position would have easily put
the objection out of their minds. But he could not put it aside
carelessly, and it was characteristic of him to exaggerate its
importance. He dearly loved to play what the French call _le beau
role_, even at the cost of his self-interest. Of a sensitive,
artistic temperament, he had for years nourished his intellect with good
books. He had always striven, too, to set before his hearers high ideals
of life and conduct. His nature was now subdued to the stuff he had
worked in. As an artist, an orator, it was all but impossible for him to
justify what must seem like sordid selfishness. He moved about in his
chair uneasily, and strove to look at the subject from a new point of