Then the s.e.xton brought a basin of water; and as he kneeled down by the side of the bed, Philip baptized him with the words: "I baptize thee, Henry, my brother, disciple of Jesus, into the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost! Amen."

"Amen," murmured the man on the bed.

Then Philip, still standing as he was, bowed his head, saying: "Blessed Lord Jesus, accept these children of Thine, bless this new disciple, and unite our hearts in love for Thee and Thy kingdom as we remember Thee now in this service."

He took the bread and said: "'Take, eat. This is my body, broken for you.' In the name of the Master who said these words, eat, remembering His love for us."

The dying man could not lift his hand to take the bread from the plate.

Philip gently placed a crumb between his lips. The s.e.xton, still kneeling, partook, and, bowing his head between his hands, sobbed.

Philip poured out the wine and said: "In the name of the Lord Jesus, this cup is the new testament in His blood shed for all mankind for the remission of sins." He carried the cup to the lips of the man and then gave to the s.e.xton. The smile on the dying man's face died. The gray shadow of the last enemy was projected into the room from the setting sun of death's approaching twilight. The son of the old slave-master was going to meet the mother of the man who was born into the darkness of slavery, but born again into the light of G.o.d. Perhaps, perhaps, he thought, who knows but the first news he would bring to her would be the news of that communion? Certain it is that his hand moved vaguely over the blanket. It slipped over the edge of the bed and fell upon the bowed head of the s.e.xton and remained there as if in benediction. And so the shadow deepened, and at last it was like unto nothing else known to the sons of men on earth, and the spirit leaped out of its clay tenement with the breath of the communion wine still on the lips of the frail, perishable body.

Philip reverently raised the arm and laid it on the bed. The s.e.xton rose, and, while the tears rolled over his face, he gazed long into the countenance of the son of his old master. No division of race now. No false and selfish prejudice here. Come! Let the neighbors of the dead come in to do the last sad offices to the casket. For the soul of this disciple is in the mansions of glory, and it shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more, neither shall the darkness of death ever again smite it; for it shall live forever in the light of that Lamb of G.o.d who gave Himself for the remission of sins and the life everlasting.

Philip did what he could on such an occasion. It was not an unusual event altogether; he had prayed by many a poor creature in the clutch of the last enemy, and he was familiar with his face in the tenements. But this particular scene had a meaning and left an impression different from any he had known before. When finally he was at liberty to go home for a little rest before the evening service, he found himself more than usually tired and sorrowful. Mrs. Strong noticed it as he came in. She made him lie down and urged him to give up his evening service.

"No, no, Sarah! I can't do that! I am prepared; I must preach! I'll get a nap and then I'll feel better," he said.

Mrs. Strong shook her head, but Philip was determined. He slept a little, ate a little lunch, and when the time of service came, he went up to the church again. As his habit was, just before the hour of beginning, he went into the little room at the side of the platform to pray by himself. When he came out and began the service, no one could have told from his manner that he was suffering physically. Even Mrs.

Strong, who was watching him anxiously, felt relieved to see how quiet and composed he was.

He had commenced his sermon and had been preaching with great eloquence for ten minutes, when he felt a strange dizziness and a pain in his side, that made him catch his breath and clutch the side of the pulpit to keep from falling. It pa.s.sed away and he went on. It was only a slight hesitation, and no one remarked anything out of the way. For five minutes he spoke with increasing power and feeling. The church was filled. It was very quiet. Suddenly, without any warning, he threw up his arms, uttered a cry of half-suppressed agony, and then fell over backward. A thrill of excitement ran through the audience. For a moment no one moved; then every one rose. The men in the front pews rushed up to the platform. Mrs. Strong was already there. Philip's head was raised. Philip's old friend, the surgeon, was in the crowd, and he at once examined him. He was not dead, and the doctor at once directed the proper movement for his removal from the church. As he was being carried out into the air he revived and was able to speak.

"Take me home," he whispered to his wife, who hung over him in a terror as great as her love for him at that moment. A carriage was called and he was taken home. The doctor remained until Philip was fully conscious.

"It was very warm and I was very tired, and I fainted, eh, doctor? First time I ever did such a thing in my life. I am ashamed; I spoiled the service." Philip uttered this slowly and feebly, when at last he had recovered enough to knew where he was.

The doctor looked at him suspiciously. "You never fainted before, eh?

Well, if I were you I would take care not to faint again. Take good care of him, Mrs. Strong. He needs rest. Milton could spare a dozen bad men like me better than one like the Dominie."

"Doctor!" cried Mrs. Strong, in sudden fear, "what is the matter? Is this serious?"

"Not at all. But men like your husband are in need of watching. Take good care of him."

"Good care of him! Doctor, he will not mind me! I wanted him to stay at home to-night, but he wouldn't."

"Then put a chain and padlock on him, and hold him in!" growled the surgeon. He prescribed a medicine and went away a.s.suring Mrs. Strong that Philip would feel much better in the morning.

The surgeon's prediction came true. Philip found himself weak the next day, but able to get about. In reply to numerous calls of inquiry for the minister, Mrs. Strong was able to report that he was much better.

About eleven o'clock, when the postman called, Philip was in his study lying on his lounge.

His wife brought up two letters. One of them was from his old chum; he read that first. He then laid it down and opened the other.

At that moment Mrs. Strong was called downstairs by a ring at the door.

When she had answered it she came upstairs again.

As she came into the room, she was surprised at the queer look on Philip's face. Without a word he handed her the letter he had just opened, and with the same look, watched her face as she read it.

CHAPTER XVII.

The letter which Philip had received, and which his wife now read, was as follows:

REV. PHILIP STRONG,

Pastor Calvary Church, Milton:

DEAR SIR AND BROTHER:--The Seminary at Fairview has long been contemplating the addition to its professorship of a chair of Sociology.

The lack of funds and the absolute necessity of sufficient endowment for such a chair have made it impossible hitherto for the trustees to make any definite move in this direction. A recent legacy, of which you have doubtless heard, has made the founding of this new professorship possible. And now the trustees by unanimous vote, have united upon you as the man best fitted to fill this chair of Sociology. We have heard of your work in Milton and know of it personally. We are a.s.sured you are the man for this place. We therefore tender you most heartily the position of Professor of Sociology at Fairview Seminary at a salary of twenty-five hundred dollars a year and a preliminary year's absence, either abroad or in this country, before you begin actual labors with the Seminary.

With this formal call on the part of the trustees goes the most earnest desire on the part of all the professors of the Seminary who remember you in your marked undergraduate success as a student here. You will meet with the most loving welcome, and the Seminary will be greatly strengthened by your presence in this new department.

We are, in behalf of the Seminary,

Very cordially yours, THE TRUSTEES.

Here followed their names, familiar to both Philip and his wife.

There was a moment of astonished silence and then Sarah said:--

"Well, Philip, that's what I call the finger of Providence!"

"Do you call it the finger of Providence because it points the way you want to go?" asked Philip, with a smile. But his face instantly grew sober. He was evidently very much excited by the call to Fairview. It had come at a time when he was in a condition to be very much moved by it.

"Yes, Philip," replied his wife, as she smoothed back his hair from his forehead, "it is very plain to me that you have done all that any one can do here in Milton, and this call comes just in time. You are worn out. The church is opposed to your methods. You need a rest and a change. And besides, this is the very work that you have always had a liking for."

Philip said nothing for a moment. His mind was in a whirl of emotion.

Finally he said, "Yes, I would enjoy such a professorship. It is a very tempting call. I feel drawn towards it. And yet----" he hesitated--"I don't know that I ought to leave Milton just now."

Mrs. Strong was provoked. "Philip Strong, you have lived this kind of life long enough! All your efforts in Calvary Church are wasted. What good have all your sermons done? It is all a vain sacrifice, and the end will be defeat and misery for you. Add to all this the fact that this new work will call for the best and most Christian labor, and that some good Christian man will take it if you don't--and I don't see, Philip, how you can possibly think of such a thing as refusing this opportunity."

"It certainly is a splendid opportunity," murmured Philip. "I wonder why they happened to pitch on me for the place!"

"That's easy enough. Every one knows that you could fill that chair better than almost any other man in the country."

"Do you mean by 'every one' a little woman by the name of Sarah?" asked Philip, with a brief return of his teasing habit.

"No, sir, I mean all the professors and people in Fairview and all the thinking people of Milton and every one who knows you, Philip. Every one knows that whatever else you lack, it isn't brains."

"I'd like to borrow a few just now, though, for I seem to have lost most of mine. Lend me yours, won't you, Sarah, until I settle this question of the call?"

"No, sir, if you can't settle a plain question like this with all your own brains you couldn't do any better with the addition of the little I have."

"Then do you really think, do you, Sarah, that I ought to accept this as the leading of the Spirit of G.o.d, and follow without hesitation."

Mrs. Strong replied with almost tearful earnestness: