"Here," I thought
to myself, "is a man in trouble."
I took a good long look at him. He still a young man, though
worn-looking--and sad as I now saw it, rather than gloomy--with
the sensitive lips and the unworldly look one sees sometimes in
the faces of saints. His black coat was immaculately neat, but
the worn button-covers and the shiny lapels told their own
eloquent story. Oh, it seemed to me I knew him as well as if
every incident of his life were written plainly upon his high,
pale forehead! I have lived long in a country neighbourhood, and
I knew him--poor flagellant of the rural church--I knew how he
groaned under the sins of a Community too comfortably willing to
cast all its burdens on the Lord, or on the Lord's accredited
local representative. I inferred also the usual large family and
the low salary (scandalously unpaid) and the frequent moves from
place to place.
Unconsciously heaving a sigh the young man turned partly aside
and said to me in a low, gentle voice:
"You are detaining my boys from church."
"I am very sorry," I said, "and I will detain them no longer,"
and with that I put aside my whistle, took up my bag and moved
down the hill with them.
"The fact is," I said, "when I heard your bell I thought of going
to church myself.
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