In His Steps | Page 6

some point in his delivery had
all those feelings. They had entered into the very substance of his
thought; it might have been all in a few seconds of time, but he had
been conscious of defining his position and his emotions as well as if
he had held a soliloquy, and his delivery partook of the thrill of deep
personal satisfaction.
The sermon was interesting. It was full of striking sentences. They
would have commanded attention printed. Spoken with the passion of a
dramatic utterance that had the good taste never to offend with a
suspicion of ranting or declamation, they were very effective. If the
Rev. Henry Maxwell that morning felt satisfied with the conditions of
his pastorate, the First Church also had a similar feeling as it
congratulated itself on the presence in the pulpit of this scholarly,
refined, somewhat striking face and figure, preaching with such
animation and freedom from all vulgar, noisy or disagreeable

mannerism.
Suddenly, into the midst of this perfect accord and concord between
preacher and audience, there came a very remarkable interruption. It
would be difficult to indicate the extent of the shock which this
interruption measured. It was so unexpected, so entirely contrary to any
thought of any person present that it offered no room for argument or,
for the time being, of resistance.
The sermon had come to a close. Mr. Maxwell had just turned the half
of the big Bible over upon his manuscript and was about to sit down as
the quartet prepared to arise to sing the closing selection,
"All for Jesus, all for Jesus, All my being's ransomed powers..."
when the entire congregation was startled by the sound of a man's voice.
It came from the rear of the church, from one of the seats under the
gallery. The next moment the figure of a man came out of the shadow
there and walked down the middle aisle.
Before the startled congregation fairly realized what was going on the
man had reached the open space in front of the pulpit and had turned
about facing the people.
"I've been wondering since I came in here"--they were the words he
used under the gallery, and he repeated them--"if it would be just the
thing to say a word at the close of the service. I'm not drunk and I'm not
crazy, and I am perfectly harmless, but if I die, as there is every
likelihood I shall in a few days, I want the satisfaction of thinking that I
said my say in a place like this, and before this sort of a crowd."
Henry Maxwell had not taken his seat, and he now remained standing,
leaning on his pulpit, looking down at the stranger. It was the man who
had come to his house the Friday before, the same dusty, worn,
shabby-looking young man. He held his faded hat in his two hands. It
seemed to be a favorite gesture. He had not been shaved and his hair
was rough and tangled. It is doubtful if any one like this had ever
confronted the First Church within the sanctuary. It was tolerably
familiar with this sort of humanity out on the street, around the railroad
shops, wandering up and down the avenue, but it had never dreamed of
such an incident as this so near.
There was nothing offensive in the man's manner or tone. He was not
excited and he spoke in a low but distinct voice. Mr. Maxwell was
conscious, even as he stood there smitten into dumb astonishment at the

event, that somehow the man's action reminded him of a person he had
once seen walking and talking in his sleep.
No one in the house made any motion to stop the stranger or in any
way interrupt him. Perhaps the first shock of his sudden appearance
deepened into a genuine perplexity concerning what was best to do.
However that may be, he went on as if he had no thought of
interruption and no thought of the unusual element which he had
introduced into the decorum of the First Church service. And all the
while he was speaking, the minister leaded over the pulpit, his face
growing more white and sad every moment. But he made no movement
to stop him, and the people sat smitten into breathless silence. One
other face, that of Rachel Winslow from the choir, stared white and
intent down at the shabby figure with the faded hat. Her face was
striking at any time. Under the pressure of the present unheard-of
incident it was as personally distinct as if it had been framed in fire.
"I'm not an ordinary tramp, though I don't know of any teaching of
Jesus that makes one kind of a tramp less worth saving