1 For here and to where you called, because Christ also suffered for you, leaving you an example that you should follow in His steps. It was Friday morning, and the Reverend Henry Maxwell was trying to finish his Sunday morning sermon. He had been interrupted several times, and was growing nervous as the morning wore away, and the sermon grew very slowly toward a satisfactory finish. Mary, he called to his wife, as he went upstairs after the last interruption, if anyone comes up to this, I wish you would say I am very busy, and cannot come down unless it is something very important. Yes, Henry, but I am going over to visit the kindergarten, and you will have the house all to yourself.  In a few minutes he heard his wife go out, and then everything was quiet. He settled himself at his desk with a sigh of relief and began to write. His text was from 1 Peter 221. For here and to where you called, because Christ also suffered for you, leaving you an example that you should follow in His steps. He had emphasized in the first part of the sermon the atonement as a personal sacrifice, calling attention to the fact of Jesus suffering in various ways in his life as well as in his death. He had then gone on to emphasize the atonement from the side of example, giving illustrations from the life and teachings of Jesus to show how faith in the Christ helped to save men because of the pattern or character he displayed for their imitation. He was now on the third and last point, the necessity of following Jesus in his sacrifice and example. He had put down three steps, what are they, and was about to enumerate them in logical order when the bell rang sharply. It was one of those clockwork bells, and always went off as a clock might go if it tried to strike twelve all at once. Henry Maxwell sat at his desk and frowned a little. He made no movement to answer the bell. Very soon it rang again, then he rose and walked over to one of his windows which commanded the view of the front door. A man was standing on the steps. He was a young man, very shabbily dressed. "'Looks like a tramp,' said the minister. "'I suppose I'll have to go down and—' He did not finish his sentence, but he went downstairs and opened the front door. There was a moment's pause as the two men stood facing each other. Then the shabby-looking young man said, "'I'm out of a job, sir, and thought maybe you might put me in the way of getting something.' "'I don't know of anything.  "'I didn't know, but you might perhaps be able to give me a line to the city railway, or the superintendent of the shops, or something.' continued the young man, shifting his faded hat from one hand to the other nervously. "'It would be of no use. You will have to excuse me. I am very busy this morning. I hope you will find something. Sorry I can't give you something to do here, but I keep only a horse and a cow and do the work myself.' The Reverend Henry Maxwell closed the door and heard the man walk down the steps. As he went up into a study he saw from his hall window that the man was going slowly down the street, still holding his hat between his hands. There was something in the figure so dejected, homeless and forsaken, that the minister hesitated a moment as he stood looking at it. Then he turned to his desk, and with a sigh began the writing where he had left off. He had no more interruptions, and when his wife came in two hours later the sermon was finished, the loose leaves gathered up and neatly tied together, and laid on his Bible all ready for the Sunday morning service. A queer thing happened at the kindergarten this morning, Henry, said his wife while they were eating dinner. You know I went over with Mrs. Brown to visit the school, and just after the games while the children were at the tables, the door opened and the young man came in holding a dirty hat in both hands. He sat down near the door and never said a word, only looked at the children. He was evidently a tramp, and Miss Red and her assistant Miss Kyle were a little frightened at first, but he sat there very quietly, and after a few minutes he went out. Perhaps he was tired and wanted to rest somewhere. The same man called here, I think. Did you say he looked like a tramp? Yes, very dusty, shabby, and generally tramp-like. Not more than thirty or thirty-three years old, I should say. The same man, said the Reverend Henry Maxwell thoughtfully. Did you finish your sermon, Henry? His wife asked after a pause. Yes, all done. It has been a very busy week with me. The two sermons have cost me a good deal of labour. They will be appreciated by a large audience Sunday, I hope, replied his wife, smiling. What are you going to preach about in the morning? Following Christ, I take up the atonement under the head of sacrifice and example, and then show the steps needed to follow his sacrifice and example. I am sure it was a good sermon. I hope it won't rain Sunday. We have had so many stormy Sundays lately. Yes, the audiences have been quite small for some time. People will not come out to church this storm. The Reverend Henry Maxwell sighed as he said it. He was thinking of the careful, laborious effort he had made in preparing sermons for large audiences that failed to appear. But Sunday morning dawned on the town of Raymond one of the perfect days that sometimes come after long periods of wind and mud and rain. The air was clear embracing. The sky was free from all threatening signs. And everyone in Mr. Maxwell's parish prepared to go to church. When the service opened at eleven o'clock, a large building was filled with an audience of the best dressed, most comfortable-looking people of Raymond. The First Church of Raymond believed in having the best music that money could buy, and its quartet choir this morning was a source of great pleasure to the congregation. The anthem was inspiring. All the music was in keeping with the subject of the sermon, and the anthem was an elaborate adaptation to the most modern music of the hymn. Jesus, I, my cross, have taken all to leave and follow thee. Just before the sermon, there's the prayer of the single soul, the well-known hymn. Where he leads me, I will follow, I'll go with him, with him all the way. Rachel Winslow looked very beautiful that morning as she stood up behind the screen of carved oak, which was significantly marked with the emblems of the cross and the crown. Her voice was even more beautiful than her face, and that meant a great deal. There was a general rustle of expectation over the audience as she rose. Mr. Maxwell settled himself contentedly behind the pulpit. Rachel Winslow's singing always helped him. He generally arranged for a song before the sermon. It made possible a certain inspiration of feeling that made his delivery more impressive. People said to themselves that they had never heard such singing even in the first church. It is certain that if it had not been a church service, her solo would have been vigorously applauded. It even seemed to the minister when she sat down that something like an attempted clapping of hands or a striking of the feet on the floor swept through the church. He was startled by it. As he rose, however, and laid a sermon on the Bible, he said to himself he had been deceived. Of course it could not occur. In a few moments he was absorbed in a sermon and everything else was forgotten in the pleasure of his delivery.  On the contrary, he had often been charged with being sensational, not in what he had said so much as in his way of saying it. But the first church people liked that. It gave their preacher and their parish a pleasant distinction that was agreeable. It was also true that the pastor of the first church loved to preach. He seldom exchanged. He was eager to be in his own pulpit when Sunday came.  He was particularly sensitive to variations in the audience. He never preached well before a small audience. The weather also affected him decidedly. He was at his best before just such an audience has faced him now on just such a morning. He felt a glow of satisfaction as he went on. The church was the first in the city. It had the best choir. It had a membership composed of the leading people, representatives of the wealth, society, and intelligence of Raymond. He was going abroad on a three-month vacation in the summer and the circumstances of his pastorate, his influence in his position as pastor of the first church in the city. It is not certain that the Reverend Henry Maxwell knew just how he could carry on that thought in connection with his sermon. But as he drew near the end of it, he knew that he had at 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.  They would have commanded attention printed, spoken with a passion of a dramatic utterance that had the good taste never to offend with the suspicion of ranting or declamation. They were very effective. If the Reverend Henry Maxwell that morning felt satisfied with the conditions of his pastorate, the first church also had a similar feeling as if 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, noisier, 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 rise 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 a thing to say a word at the close of the service.  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 saying a place like this, before this sort of a crowd. Henry Maxwell had not taken a 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 anyone like this had ever confronted the first church within the sanctuary. It was tolerably familiar with the 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.  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 leaned over the pulpit, his face growing more white and sad every moment. 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 a 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 than another, do you? He put the question as naturally as if the whole congregation had been a small bible class. He paused just a moment and coughed painfully. Then he went on. I lost my job ten months ago. I'm apprinted by trade. The new little type machines are beautiful specimens of invention, but I know six men who have killed themselves inside of the year, just on account of those machines. Of course I don't blame the newspapers for getting the machines. Meanwhile, what can a man do? I know I never learned but the one trade, and that's all I can do. I've tramped all over the country trying to find something. There are good many others like me. I'm not complaining, am I? Just stating facts. But I was wondering as I sat there under the gallery, if what you call following Jesus is the same thing as what he taught. What did he mean when he said follow me? The minister said, here he turned about and looked up at the pulpit, that it is necessary for the disciple of Jesus to follow in his steps, and he said the steps are obedience, faith, love, and imitation. But I did not hear him tell you just what he meant that to mean, especially the last step. What do you Christians mean by following the steps of Jesus? I've tramped through this city for three days trying to find a job, and in all that time I've not had a word of sympathy or comfort, except for your minister here, who said he was sorry for me and hoped I would find a job somewhere. I suppose it is because you get so imposed on by the professional tramp, that you have lost your interest in any other sort. I'm not blaming anybody, am I? Just stating facts. Of course I understand you can't all go out of your way to hunt up jobs for other people like me. I'm not asking you to. But what I feel puzzled about is, what is meant by following Jesus? What do you mean when you say I'll go with him, with him, all the way? Do you mean that you are suffering and denying yourselves and trying to save lost, suffering humanity, just as I understand Jesus did? What do you mean by it? I see the ragged edge of things a good deal. I understand there are more than 500 men in this city, in my case. Most of them are families. My wife died four months ago. I'm glad she is out of trouble. My little girl staying with the printer's family until I find a job. Somehow I get puzzled when I see so many Christians living in luxury and singing, Jesus on my cross have taken, all to leave and follow thee. And remember how my wife died in the tenement in New York City, gasping for air and asking God to take the little girl too. Of course, I don't expect you people can prevent everyone from dying of salvation, lack of proper nourishment and tenement air. But what does following Jesus mean? I understand that Christian people own a good many of the tenements. A member of a church was the owner of the one where my wife died, and I have wanted a following Jesus all the way was true in his case. I heard some people singing in a church meeting the other night. All for Jesus, all for Jesus, all my beings ran some powers, all my thoughts and all my doings, all my days and all my hours. And I kept wondering as I sat on the steps outside just what they meant by it. It seems to me there is an awful lot of trouble in the world that somehow wouldn't exist if all the people who sing such songs went and lived them out. I suppose I don't understand. But what would Jesus do? Is that what he meant by following his steps? It seems to me sometimes as if the people in the big churches had good clothes and nice houses to live in and money to spend for luxuries and could go away on summer vacations and all that, while the people outside the churches, thousands of them I mean, die in tenements and walk the streets for jobs and never have a piano or picture in the house and grow up in misery and drunkenness and sin. The man suddenly gave a queer lurch over in the direction of the communion table and laid one grimy hand on it. His hat fell upon the carpet at his feet. A stir went through the congregation. Dr. West half rose from his pew, but as yet the silence was unbroken by any voice and movement where I've mentioned it in the audience. The man passed his other hand across his eyes and then without any warning they'll heavily forward on his face full length at the aisle. Henry Maxwell spoke. We will consider the service closed. End of Chapter 1 Chapter 2 of In His Steps This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. In His Steps by Charles Monroe Sheldon. Chapter 2 Henry Maxwell and a group of his church members remained some time in the study. The man lay on the couch there and breathed heavily. When the question of what to do with him came up, the minister insisted on taking the man to his own house. He lived nearby and had an extra room. Rachel Winslow said, Mother has no company at present. I am sure we would be glad to give him a place with us. She looked strongly agitated. No one noticed it particularly. They were all excited over the strange event, the strangest that first church people could remember. But the minister insisted on taking charge of the man, and when a carriage came, the unconscious but living form was carried to his house. And with the entrance of that humanity into the minister's spare room, a new chapter in Henry Maxwell's life began, and yet no one, himself least of all, dreamed of the remarkable change it was destined to make in all his after-definition of the Christian discipleship. The event created a great sensation in the first church parish. People talked of nothing else for a week. It was the general impression that the man had wandered into the church in a condition of mental disturbance caused by his troubles, and that all the time he was talking he was in a strange delirium of fever and totally ignorant of his surroundings. That was the most charitable construction to put upon his action. It was the general agreement also that there was a singular absence of anything bitter or complaining in what the man had said. He had, throughout, spoken in a mild apologetic tone, almost as if he were one of the congregation seeking for light on a very difficult subject. The third day after his removal to the minister's house there was a marked change in his condition. The doctor spoke of it but offered no hope. Saturday morning he still lingered, although he had rapidly failed as the week drew near its close. Sunday morning, just before the clock struck one, he rallied and asked if his child had come. The minister had sent for her at once as soon as he had been able to secure her address from some letters found in the man's pocket. He had been conscious and able to talk coherently only a few moments since his attack. The child is coming. She will be here. Mr. Maxwell said as he sat there, his face showing marks of the strain of the week's vigil, for he had insisted on sitting up nearly every night. I shall never see her in this world, the man whispered. Then he uttered with great difficulty the words, You have been good to me. Somehow I feel as if it was what Jesus would do. After a few minutes he turned his head slightly, and before Mr. Maxwell could realize the fact, the doctor said quietly, He is gone. The Sunday morning that dawned on the city of Raymond was exactly like the Sunday of a week before. Mr. Maxwell entered his pulpit to face one of the largest congregations that had ever crowded the first church. He was haggard and looked as if he had risen from a long illness. His wife was at home with the little girl who had come on the morning train an hour after her father had died. He lay in that spare room, his troubles over, and the minister could see the face as he opened the Bible and arranged his different notices on the side of the desk as he had been in the habit of doing for ten years. The service that morning contained a new element. No one could remember when Henry Maxwell had preached in the morning without notes. As a matter of fact he had done so occasionally when he first entered the ministry, but for a long time he had carefully written every word of his morning sermon, and nearly always his evening discourses as well. It cannot be said that his sermon this morning was striking or impressive. He talked with considerable hesitation. It was evident that some great idea struggled in his thought for utterance, but it was not expressed in the theme he had chosen for his preaching. It was near the close of his sermon that he began to gather a certain strength that had been painfully lacking at the beginning. He closed the Bible and, stepping out at the side of the desk, faced his people and began to talk to them about the remarkable scene of the week before. Our brother, somehow the word sounded a little strange coming from his lips, passed away this morning. I have not yet had time to learn all his history. He had one sister living in Chicago. I have written her and have not yet received an answer. His little girl is with us and will remain for the time. He paused and looked over the house. He thought he had never seen so many earnest faces during his entire pastorate. He was not able yet to tell his people, his experiences, the crisis through which he was even now moving. But something of his feeling passed from him to them, and it did not seem to him that he was acting under a careless impulse at all to go on and break to them this morning something of the message he bore in his heart. So he went on. The appearance and words of the stranger in the church last Sunday made a very powerful impression on me. I am not able to conceal from you or myself the fact that what he said, followed as it has been by his death in my house, has compelled me to ask, as I never asked before, what does following Jesus mean? I am not in a position yet to utter any condemnation of this people or to a certain extent of myself, either in our Christ-like relations to this man or the numbers that he represents in the world. But all that does not prevent me from feeling that much that the man said was so vitally true that we must face it in an attempt to answer it or else stand condemned as Christian disciples. A good deal that was said here last Sunday was in the nature of a challenge to Christianity as it is seen and felt in our churches. I have felt this with increasing emphasis every day since. And I do not know that any time is more appropriate than the present for me to propose a plan or a purpose which has been forming in my mind as a satisfactory reply to much that was said here last Sunday. Again Henry Maxwell paused and looked into the faces of his people. There were some strong earnest men and women in the first church. He could see Edward Norman, editor of the Raymond Daily News. He had been a member of the first church for ten years. No man was more honored in the community. There was Alexander Powers, superintendent of the Great Railroad Shops in Raymond, a typical railroad man, one who had been born into the business. There sat Donald Marsh, president of Lincoln College, situated in the suburbs of Raymond. There was Milton Wright, one of the great merchants of Raymond, having in his employ at least one hundred men in various shops. There was Dr. West, who, although still comparatively young, was quoted as authority in special surgical cases. There was young Jasper Chase, the author, who had written one successful book and was said to be at work on a new novel. There was Miss Virginia Page, the heiress, who, through the recent death of her father, had inherited a million at least, and was gifted with unusual attractions of person and intellect. And, not least of all, Rachel Winslow, from her seat in the choir, glowed with her peculiar beauty of light this morning because she was so intensely interested in the whole scene. There was some reason, perhaps, in view of such material in the first church, for Henry Maxwell's feeling of satisfaction whenever he considered his parish as he had the previous Sunday. There was an unusually large number of strong individual characters who claimed membership there. But as he noted their faces this morning, he was simply wondering how many of them would respond to the strange proposition he was about to make. He continued slowly, taking time to choose his words carefully, and giving the people an impression they had never felt before, even when he was at his best with his most dramatic delivery. What I am going to propose now is something which ought not to appear unusual or at all impossible of execution, yet I am aware that it will be so regarded by a large number, perhaps, of the members of this church. But in order that we may have a thorough understanding of what we are considering, I will put my proposition very plainly, perhaps bluntly. I want volunteers from the first church who will pledge themselves, earnestly and honestly, for an entire year, not to do anything without first asking the question, what would Jesus do? And after asking that question, each one will follow Jesus as exactly as he knows how, no matter what the result may be. I will, of course, include myself in this company of volunteers, and shall take for granted that my church here will not be surprised at my future conduct, as based upon this standard of action, and will not oppose whatever is done if they think Christ would do it. Have I made my meaning clear? At the close of the service, I want all those members who are willing to join such a company to remain, and we will talk over the details of the plan. Our motto will be, What Would Jesus Do? Our aim will be to act just as he would if he were in our places, regardless of immediate results. In other words, we propose to follow Jesus' steps as closely and as literally as we believe he taught his disciples to do, and those who volunteer to do this will pledge themselves for an entire year, beginning with today, so to act. Henry Maxwell paused again and looked out over his people. It is not easy to describe the sensation that such a simple proposition apparently made. Men glanced at one another in astonishment. It was not like Henry Maxwell to define Christian discipleship in this way. There was evident confusion of thought over his proposition. It was understood well enough, but there was apparently a great difference of opinion as to the application of Jesus' teaching and example. He calmly closed the service with a brief prayer. The organist began his postlude immediately after the benediction, and the people began to go out. There was a great deal of conversation. Animated groups stood all over the church, discussing the minister's proposition. It was evidently provoking great discussion. After several minutes, he asked all who expected to remain to pass into the lecture-room which joined the large room on the side.  He walked over to the lecture-room entrance and went in. He was almost startled to see the people who were there. He had not made up his mind about any of his members, but he had hardly expected that so many were ready to enter into such a literal testing of their Christian discipleship as now awaited him. There were perhaps fifty present, among them Rachel Winslow and Virginia Page, Mr. Norman, President Marsh, Alexander Powers, the railroad superintendent, Milton Wright, Dr. West, and Jasper Chase. He closed the door of the lecture-room and went and stood before the little group. His face was pale, and his lips trembled with genuine emotion.  No man can tell until he is moved by the Divine Spirit what he may do or how he may change the current of a lifetime of fixed habits of thought and speech and action. Henry Maxwell did not, as we have said, yet know himself all that he was passing through, but he was conscious of a great upheaval in his definition of Christian discipleship, and he was moved with a depth of feeling he could not measure as he looked into the faces of those men and women on this occasion. It seemed to him that the most fitting word to be spoken first was that of prayer. He asked them all to pray with him, and almost with the first syllable he uttered, there was a distinct presence of the spirit felt by them all. As the prayer went on, this presence grew in power. They all felt it. The room was filled with it as plainly as if it had been visible. When the prayer closed, there was a silence that lasted several moments. All the heads were bowed. Henry Maxwell's face was wet with tears. If an audible voice from heaven had sanctioned their pledge to follow the master's steps, not one person present could have felt more certain of the Divine blessing. And so the most serious movement ever started in the first Church of Raymond was begun. We all understand, said he, speaking very quietly, what we have undertaken to do. We pledge ourselves to do everything in our daily lives after asking the question, what would Jesus do, regardless of what may be the result to us? Sometime I shall be able to tell you what a marvelous change has come over my life within a week's time. I cannot now. But the experience I have been through since last Sunday has left me so dissatisfied with my previous definition of Christian discipleship that I have been compelled to take this action. I did not dare begin it alone. I know that I am being led by the hand of Divine Love in all this. The same Divine impulse must have led you also. Do we understand fully what we have undertaken? I want to ask a question, said Rachel Winslow. Everyone turned towards her. Her face glowed with a beauty that no physical loveliness could ever create. I am a little in doubt as to the source of our knowledge concerning what Jesus would do. Who is to decide for me just what he would do in my case? It is a different age. There are many perplexing questions in our civilization that are not mentioned in the teachings of Jesus. How am I going to tell what he would do? There is no way that I know of, replied the pastor, except as we study Jesus through the medium of the Holy Spirit. You remember what Christ said speaking to his disciples about the Holy Spirit. How be it when he, the spirit of truth, is come, he shall guide you into all the truth, for he shall not speak from himself, but what things soever he shall hear, these shall he speak. And he shall declare unto you the things that are to come. He shall glorify me, for he shall take of mine and shall declare it unto you. All things whatsoever the Father hath are mine, therefore said I that he taketh of mine and shall declare it unto you. There is no other test that I know of. We shall all have to decide what Jesus would do after going to that source of knowledge. What if others say of us, when we do certain things, that Jesus would not do so? asked the superintendent of railroads. We cannot prevent that, but we must be absolutely honest with ourselves. The standard of Christian action cannot vary in most of our acts. And yet what one church member thinks Jesus would do, another refuses to accept as his probable course of action. What is to render our conduct uniformly Christ-like? Will it be possible to reach the same conclusions always in all cases? asked President Marsh. Mr. Maxwell was silent for some time. Then he answered, No, I don't know that we can expect that, but when it comes to a genuine, honest, enlightened following of Jesus' steps, I cannot believe there will be any confusion either in our own minds or in the judgment of others. We must be free from fanaticism on one hand and too much caution on the other. If Jesus' example is the example for the world to follow, it certainly must be feasible to follow it. But we need to remember this great fact. After we have asked the Spirit to tell us what Jesus would do and have received an answer to it, we are to act regardless of the results to ourselves. Is that understood? All the faces in the room were raised towards the minister in solemn assent. There was no misunderstanding that proposition. Henry Maxwell's face quivered again as he noted the President of the Endeavour Society with several members seated back of the older men and women. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Liberbox.org. Recording by Vaughan Ollman. In his steps by Charles Monroe Sheldon Chapter 3 Edward Norman, editor of the Raymond Daley News, and faced a new world of action. He had made his pledge in good faith to do everything after asking what would Jesus do, and, as he supposed, with his eyes open to all the possible results. But as the regular life of the paper started on a week's rush and world of activity, he confronted it with a degree of hesitation and a feeling nearly akin to fear. He had come down to the office very early and for a few minutes was by himself. He sat at his desk in a growing thoughtfulness that finally became a desire, which he knew was as great as it was unusual. He had yet to learn, with all the others in that little company pledged to do the Christ-like thing, that the spirit of life was moving in power through his own life as never before.  He knelt down by his desk and prayed for the divine presence and wisdom to direct him. He rose with the day before him, and his promise distinct and clear in his mind. Now for action, he seemed to say, but he would be led by events as fast as they came on. He opened his door and began the routine of the office work. The managing editor had just come in and was at his desk in the adjoining room. One of the reporters there was pounding out something on a typewriter. Edward Norman began to write an editorial. The Daily News was an evening paper, and Norman usually completed his leading editorial before nine o'clock. He had been writing for 15 minutes when the managing editor called out, here's this press report of yesterday's prize fight at the resort. It will make up three columns and a half. I suppose it all goes in. Norman was one of those newspaper men who keep an eye on every detail of the paper. The managing editor always consulted his chief in matters of both small and large importance. Sometimes, as in this case, it was merely a nominal inquiry. Yes, no, let me see it. He took the typewritten matter, just as it came from the telegraph editor, and ran over it carefully. Then he laid down the sheets on his desk and did some very hard thinking. We won't run this today, he said finally. The managing editor was standing in the doorway between the two rooms. He was astounded, his chief's remark, and thought he had perhaps misunderstood him. What did you say? Leave it out, we won't use it. But the managing editor was simply dumbfounded. He stared at Norman as if the man was out of his mind. I don't think, Clark, that it ought to be printed, and that's the end of it, said Norman, looking out from his desk. Clark seldom had any words with the chief. His word had always been law in the office, and he had seldom been known to change his mind. The circumstances now, however, seemed to be so extraordinary that Clark could not help expressing himself. Do you mean that the paper is to go to press without a word of the prize fight in it? Yes, that's what I mean. But it's unheard of. All the other papers will print it. What will our subscribers say? Why, it's simply Clark pause unable to find words to say what he thought. Norman looked at Clark thoughtfully. The managing editor was a member of a church of a different denomination from that of Norman's. The two men had never talked on religious matters, although they had been associated on the paper for several years.  Clark came in, and the two men faced each other alone. Norman did not speak for a minute. Then he said abruptly, Clark, if Christ was editor of a daily paper, do you honestly think he would print three columns and a half of a prize fight in it? No, I don't suppose he would. Well, that's my only reason for shutting this account out of the news. I have decided not to do a thing in connection with the paper for a whole year that I honestly believe Jesus would not do. Clark could not have looked more amazed if the chief had suddenly gone crazy. In fact, he did think something was wrong, though Mr. Norman was one of the last men in the world in his judgment to lose his mind. What effect will that have on the paper? He finally managed to ask in a faint voice. What do you think? asked Norman with a keen glance. I think it will simply ruin the paper, replied Clark promptly. He was gathering up his bewildered senses and began to remonstrate. Why it isn't feasible to run a paper nowadays on any such basis. It's too ideal. The world isn't ready for it. You can't make it pay. Just as sure as you live, if you shut out this prize fight report, you will lose hundreds of subscribers. It doesn't take a profit to see that. The very best people in town are eager to read it. They know it has taken place, and when they get the paper this evening, they'll expect half a page at least. Surely you can't afford to disregard the wishes of the public to such an extent? It would be a great mistake if you do, in my opinion. Norman sat silent a minute. Then he spoke gently but firmly. Clark, what in your honest opinion is the right standard for determining conduct? Is the only right standard for everyone the probable action of Jesus Christ? Would you say that the highest best law for man to live by was contained in asking the question, what would Jesus do? And then doing it regardless of results? In other words, do you think men everywhere ought to follow Jesus' example as close as they can in their daily lives? Clark turned red and moved uneasily in his chair before he answered the editor's question. Why, yes, I suppose if you put it on the ground of what men ought to do, there is no other standard of conduct. But the question is what is feasible? Is it possible to make it pay? To succeed in the newspaper business, we've got to conform to custom and recognize methods of society. What can't do is we would in an ideal world. Do you mean that we can't run the papers strictly on Christian principles and make it succeed? Yes, that's just what I mean. It can't be done. We'll go bankrupt in 30 days. Norman did not reply at once. He was very thoughtful. We shall have occasion to talk this over again, Clark. Meanwhile, I think we ought to understand each other, frankly. I pledge myself for a year to do everything connected with the paper after answering the question, what would Jesus do as honestly as possible? I shall continue to do this in the belief that not only can we succeed, but that we can see a seed better than we ever did. Clark rose. The report does not go in? It does not. There's plenty of good material to take its place, and you know what it is. Clark hesitated. Are you going to say anything about the absence of the report? No. Let the paper go to press as if there had been no such thing as a prize fight yesterday. Clark walked out of the room to his own desk, feeling as if the bottom had dropped out of everything. He was astonished, bewildered, excited, and considerably angered. His great respect for Norman checked his rising indignation and disgust, but with it all was the feeling of growing wonder at the sudden change of motive, which had entered the office of the Daily News and threatened, as he firmly believed, to destroy it. Before noon every reporter, press man, and employee on the Daily News was informed of the remarkable fact that the paper was going to press without a word in it about the famous prize fight of Sunday. The reporters were certainly astonished beyond measure at the announcement of the fact. Every one in the stereotyping and composing rooms had something to say about the unheard of admission. Two or three times during the day when Mr. Norman had occasion to visit the composing rooms, the men stopped their work or glanced around their cases, looking at him curiously. He knew he was being observed, but said nothing and did not appear to note it. There had been several minor changes in the paper suggested by the editor, but nothing marked. He was waiting and thinking deeply. He felt as if he needed time and considerable opportunity for the exercise of his best judgment in several matters before he answered his ever-present question in the right way. It was not because there were not a great many things in the life of the paper that were contrary to the spirit of Christ that he did not act at once, but because he was yet honestly in doubt concerning it, earning what action Jesus would take. When the Daily News came out that evening, it carried to its subscribers a distinct sensation. The presence of the report of the prize fight could not have produced anything equal to the effects of its omission. Hundreds of men in the hotels and stores downtown, as well as regular subscribers, eagerly opened the paper and searched it through for the account of the great fight. Not finding it, they rushed to the newsstand and brought other papers. Even the news boys did not understand the fact of omission. One of them was calling out Daily News, full account of great prize fight, resort news. Sir? A man on the corner of the avenue, close by the news office, brought the paper, looked over its front page, hurriedly, and then angrily called the boy back. Here, boy, what's the matter with your paper? There's no prize fight here. What do you mean by selling old papers? Old papers, nothing. Reply to the boy indignantly, that's today's paper. What's the matter with you? But there's no account of the prize fight here. Look. The man had the back the paper, and the boy glanced at it hurriedly. Then he whistled, while a bewildered look crept over his face. Seeing another boy running by with papers, he called up, say, Sam, let me see your pile. A hasty examination revealed the remarkable fact that all copies of the news were silent on the subject of the prize fight. Here, give me another paper, shout at the customer. One with the prize fight account. He received it and walked off, while the two boys remained, comparing notes and lost in wonder at the result. Some slipped a cog in the newsy shore, said the first boy, but he couldn't tell why and ran over to the news office to find out. There were several other boys at the delivery room, and they were all excited and disgusted. The amount of slangy remonstrous hurled at the clerk back of the long counter would have driven anyone else to despair. He was more or less used to it all the time, and consequently hardened to it. Mr. Norman was just coming downstairs on his way home, and he paused as he went by the door of the delivery room and looked in. What's the matter here, George? He asked the clerk as he noted the unusual confusion. The boys say they can't sell any copies of the news tonight, because the prize fight isn't in it, replied George, looking curiously at the editor, as so many of the employees had done during the day. Mr. Norman hesitated a moment and then walked into the room and confronted the boys. How many papers are there, boys? Count them out, and I'll buy them tonight. There was a combined stare and a wild counting of papers on the part of the boys. Given their money, George, if any of the other boys come in with the same complaint by their unsold copies. Is that fair? He asked the boys who were smitten into unusual silence by the unheard of action on the part of the editor. Fair, well, I should. But will you keep this up? Will this be a continual performance for the benefit of defertternity? Mr. Norman smiled slightly, but did not think it was necessary to answer the question. He walked out of the office and went home. On the way, he could not avoid that constant query, would Jesus have done it? It was not so much with reference to this last transaction as to the entire motive that it urged him on since he had made the promise. The news boys were necessary sufferers through the action he had taken. Why should they lose money by it? They were not to blame. He was a rich man and could afford to put a little brightness into their lives if he chose to do it. He believed, as he went on his way home, that Jesus would have done either what he did or something similar in order to be free from any possible feelings of injustice. During the week he was in receipt of numerous letters commenting on the absence from the news of the Count of the Prize fight. Two or three of these letters may be of interest. The editor of the news, dear sir, I have been thinking for some time of changing my paper. I want a journal that is up to the times, progressive and enterprising, supplying the public demand at all points. The recent freak of your paper and refusing to print the account of the famous contest at the resort has decided me finally to change my paper. Please continue it, yours very truly. Here followed the name of businessman who had been a subscriber for many years. Edward Norman, editor of the daily news, Raymond, dear editor, what is this sensation you have given the people of your burg? What new policy have you taken up? Hope you don't intend to try the reform business through the avenue of the press. It's dangerous to experiment much along that line. Take my advice and stick to the enterprising modern methods you have made so successful for the news. The public wants prize fights and such, give it what it wants, and let someone else to the reforming business, yours here followed the name of one of Norman's old friends, the editor of the daily and an adjoining town. My dear Mr. Norman, I hasten to write you a note of appreciation for the evident carrying out of your promise. It is a splendid beginning and no one feels the value of it more than I do. I know something of what it will cost you, but not all, your pastor, Henry Maxwell. One other letter which he opened immediately after reading this from Maxwell, revealed to him something of the loss to his business that possibly awaited him. Mr. Edward Norman, editor of the daily news, dear sir, at the expiration of my advertising limit you will do me the favor not to continue it as you've done here the two. I enclose a check for payment in full and shall consider my account with your paper closed after date. Very truly yours, here followed the name of one of the largest dealers in tobacco in the city. He had been in the habit of inserting a column of conspicuous advertising and paying for it at a very large price. Norman laid this letter down thoughtfully, and then after a moment he took up a copy of his paper and looked through the advertising columns. There was no connection implied in the tobacco merchant's letter between the admission of the prize fight and the withdrawal of the advertisement, but he could not avoid putting the two together. In point of fact he afterwards learned that the tobacco dealer withdrew his advertisement because he had heard that the office of the news was about to enter upon some queer reform policy that would be certain to reduce his subscription list. But the letter directed Norman's attention to the advertising phase of his paper. He had not considered this before. As he glanced over the columns he could not escape the conviction that his master could not permit some of them in his paper. What would he do with that other long advertisement of choice liquors and cigars? As a member of a church and respected citizen he had incurred no special censure because the saloon men advertised in his columns. No one thought anything about it. It was all legitimate business. Why not? Raymond enjoyed a system of high license and the saloon in the billiard hall and the beer garden were part of the city's Christian civilization. He was simply doing what every other businessman and Raymond did. And it was one of the best-paying sources of revenue. What would the paper do if it cut these out? Could it live? That was the question. But was that the question after all? What would Jesus do? That was the question he was answering or trying to answer this week? Would Jesus advertise whiskey and tobacco in his paper? Edward Norman asked it honestly and after a prayer for help and wisdom he asked Clark to come into the office. Clark came in feeling that the paper was at a crisis and prepared for almost anything after his Monday morning experience. This was Thursday. Clark said Norman, speaking slowly and carefully, I've been looking at our advertising columns and have decided to dispense with some of the matter as soon as the contracts ran out. I wish you would notify the advertising agent not to solicit or renew the ads that I have marked here. He handed the paper with the marked places over to Clark, who took it and looked over the columns with a very serious air. This will mean a great loss to the news. How long do you think you can keep this sort of thing up? Clark was astounded at the editor's action and could not understand it. Clark, do you think if Jesus was the editor and proprietor of a daily paper in Raymond, he would permit advertisements of whiskey and tobacco in it? Well, no, I don't suppose he would. But what has that to do with us? We can't do as he would. Newspapers can't be run on any such basis. Why not? asked Norman quietly. Why not? Because they'll lose more money than they make, that's all. Clark spoke out with an irritation that he really felt. We shall certainly bankrupt the paper with this sort of business policy. Do you think so? Norman asked the question, not as if he expected an answer, but simply as if he were talking with himself. After a pause he said, You may direct Marx to do as I have said. I believe it is what Christ would do, and as I told you, Clark, that is what I have promised to try to do for a year, regardless of what the results may be to me. I cannot believe that by any kind of reasoning we could reach a conclusion justifying our Lord in the advertisement. In this age of whiskey and tobacco in a newspaper, there are some other advertisements of a doubtful character I could study into. Meanwhile, I feel a conviction regarding these that cannot be silenced. Clark went back to his desk feeling as if he'd been in the presence of a very peculiar person. He could not grasp the meaning of it all. He felt enraged and alarmed. He was sure any such policy would ruin the paper, as soon as it became generally known that the editor was trying to do everything by such an absurd moral standard. What would become a business if this standard was adopted? It would upset every custom and introduce endless confusion. It was simply foolishness. It was downright idiocy, so Clark said to himself. And when Mark was informed of the action, he seconded the managing editor with some very forcible ejaculations. What was the matter with the chief? Was he insane? Was he going to bankrupt the whole business? But Edward Norman had not yet faced his most serious problem. When he came down to the office Friday morning, he was confronted with the usual program for the Sunday morning edition. The news is one of the few evening papers in Raymond to issue a Sunday edition, and it had always been remarkably successful financially. There was an average of one page of literary and religious items to 30 or 40 pages of sport, theater, gossip, fashion, society, and political material. This made a very interesting magazine of all sorts of reading matter, and had always been welcomed by all the subscribers, church members, and all, as a Sunday morning necessity. Edmund Normans faced this fact and put to himself the question, what would Jesus do? If he was the editor of a paper, would he deliberately plan to put into the homes of all the church people and Christians of Raymond such a collection of reading matter on the one day of the week which ought to be given up to something holier? He was, of course, familiar with the regular arguments of the Sunday paper. The public needed something of this sort, and the working man especially who would not go to church anyway ought to have something entertaining and instructive on Sunday, his only day of rest. But suppose the Sunday morning did not, paper did not pay. Suppose there was no money in it. How eager would the editor or publisher be there then to supply this crying need of the poor workmen? Edward Norman communed honestly with himself over the subject. Taking everything into account, would Jesus probably edit a Sunday morning paper? No matter whether it paid, that was not the question. As a matter of fact, the Sunday news paid so well that it would be direct laws of thousands of dollars to discontinue it. Besides, the regular subscribers had paid for a seven-day paper. Had he any right now to give them less than they supposed they'd paid for? He was honestly perplexed by the question. So much was involved in this continuance of the Sunday edition that for the first time he almost decided to refuse to be guided by the standard of Jesus's probable action. He was sole proprietor of the paper. It was his to shape as he chose. He had no board of directors to consult as to policy. But as he sat there surrounded by the usual quantity of material for the Sunday edition, he reached some definite conclusions. And among them was a determination to call on the force of the paper and frankly state his motive and purpose. He sent word for Clark and the other men in the office, including the few reporters who were in the building and the foreman. With what men were in the composing room it was early in the morning and they were not all in. To come into the mailing room this was a large room and the men came in curiously and perched around on tables and counters. It was a very unusual proceeding but they all agreed that the paper was being run on new principles anyhow and they all watched Mr. Norman carefully as he spoke. I've called you in here to let you know what my further plans for the news. I propose certain changes which I believe are necessary. I understand very well that some things I've already done are recorded by the men is very strange. I wish to state my motive in doing what I've done. Here he told the men what he'd already told Clark and they stared as Clark has done and looked as painfully conscious. Now in acting on this standard of conduct I've reached conclusion which will no doubt cause some surprise. I've decided that the Sunday morning edition of the news shall be discontinued after next Sunday's issue. I shall state in that issue my reasons for discontinuing. In order to make up to the subscribers the amount of reading matter they may suppose themselves entitled to we can issue a double number on Saturday as is done by many evening papers that make no attempt at a Sunday edition. I am convinced that from a Christian point of view more harm than good has been done by our Sunday morning paper. I do not believe that Jesus would be responsible for it if he were in my place today. It will occasion some trouble to arrange the details caused by this change with the advertisers and subscribers. That is for me to look after. The change itself is one that will take place. So far as I can see the loss will fall on myself. Neither the reporters nor the pressmen need make any particular changes in their plans. He looked around the room and no one spoke. He was struck for the first time in his life with the fact that in all the years of his new presapar life he had never had the force of the paper together in this way. Would Jesus do that? That is would he probably run a newspaper on some loving family plan where editors, reporters, pressmen and all meet and discuss and devise the plans for the making of a paper that they should have in view. He caught himself drawing almost away from the facts of typographical unions and office rules and reporters' enterprise and all the coal business-like methods that make a great deal is successful. But still the vague picture that came up in the mailing room would not fade away when he had gone into his office and the man had gone back to their places with wonder in their looks and questions of all sort in their tongues as they talked over the editors' remarkable actions. Clark came in and had a long serious talk with his chief. He was thoroughly roused and his protest almost reached the point of resigning his place. Norman guided himself carefully. Every minute of the interview was painful to him, but he felt more than ever the necessity for doing the Christ-like thing. Clark was a very valuable man. It would be difficult to fill his place, but he was not able to give any reasons for continuing the Sunday paper that answered the question, What Would Jesus Do? by letting Jesus print that edition. It comes to this then, said Clark frankly. You'll bankrupt the paper in thirty days. We might as well face that future fact. I don't think we shall. Will you stay by the news until it is bankrupt? Ask Norman with a strange smile. Mr. Norman, I don't understand you. You're not the same man this week that I always knew before. I don't know myself either, Clark. Something remarkable has caught me up and borne me on. But I was never more convinced of final success and power for the paper. You've not answered my question. Will you stay with me? of In His Steps. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Norman attracted great attention. He sat quietly in his usual place about three seats from the pulpit. The Sunday morning issue of the news containing the statements of its discontinuance had been expressed in such remarkable language that every reader was struck by it. No such series of distinct sensations had ever disturbed the usual business custom of Raymond. The events connected with the news were not all. People were eagerly talking about strange things done during the week by Alexander Powers at the railroad shops and Milton Wright in his stores on the avenue. The service progressed upon a distinct wave of excitement in the pews. Henry Maxwell faced it all with a calmness which indicated a strength and purpose more than usual. His prayers were very helpful. His sermon was not so easy to describe. How would a minister be apt to preach to his people if he came before them after an entire week of eager asking, How would Jesus preach? What would he probably say? It is very certain that he did not preach as he had done two Sundays before. Tuesday of the past week he had stood by the grave of the dead stranger and said the words earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. And still he was moved by the spirit of a deeper impulse than he could measure as he thought of his people and yearned for the Christ message which he should be in the pulpit again. Now that Sunday had come and the people were there to hear what would the master tell them. He agonized over his preparation for them and yet he knew he had not been able to fit his message into his ideal of the Christ. Nevertheless no one in the first church could remember ever hearing such a sermon before. There was in it rebuke for sin, especially hypocrisy. There was definite rebuke of the greed of wealth and the selfishness of fashion. Two things that first church had never heard rebuke this way before. And there was a love of his people that gathered new forces as the sermon went on. When it was finished there were those who were saying in their hearts the spirit moved that sermon. And they were right. Then Rachel Winslow rose to sing this time after the sermon by Mr. Maxwell's request. Rachel's singing did not provoke applause this time. What deeper feeling carried the people's hearts into reverent silence and tenorance of thought? Rachel was beautiful, but her consciousness of her remarkable loveliness had always marred her singing with those who had the deepest spiritual feeling. Yet it also marred her rendering of certain kinds of music with herself. Today this was all gone. There was no lack of power in her grand voice, but there was an actual element of humility and purity which the audience distinctly felt and bowed to. Before service closed Mr. Maxwell asked those who had remained the week before to stay again for a few minutes of consultation, and any others who were willing to make the pledge at that time. When he was at liberty he went into the lecture room. To his astonishment it was almost filled. This time a large proportion of young people had come, but among them were a few businessmen and officers of the church. As before he, Maxwell, asked to pray with him. And as before distinct answer came from the presence of the divine spirit, there was no doubt in the minds of any present thing. What they proposed to do was so clearly in line with the divine will that a blessing rested upon it in a very special manner. They remained some time to ask questions and consult together. There was a feeling of fellowship such as they had never known in their church membership. Mr. Norman's action was well understood by them all, and he answered several questions. What will be the probable result of your discontinuance of the Sunday paper? asked Alexander Powers who sat next to him. I don't know yet. I presume it results in the falling off of subscriptions and advertisements. I anticipate that. Do you have any doubts about your action? I mean do you regret it or fear it is not what Jesus would do? asked Mr. Maxwell. Not in the least, but I would like to ask for my own satisfaction if any of you here think Jesus would issue a Sunday morning paper. No one spoke for a minute. Then Jasper Chase said, We seem to think alike on that, but I've been puzzled several times during the week to know just what he would do. It is not always an easy question to answer. I find that trouble, said Virginia Page. She sat by Rachel Winslow. Everyone who knew Virginia Page was wondering how she would succeed in keeping her promise. I think perhaps I find it especially difficult to answer that question on account of my money. Our Lord never owned any property and there's nothing in his example to guide me in the use of mine. I'm studying and praying. I think I see clearly a part of what he would do, but not all. What would he do with a million dollars? Is my question really? I confess I'm not yet able to answer it to my satisfaction. I could tell you what you could do with a part of it, said Rachel turning her face toward Virginia. That does not trouble me, replied Virginia with a slight smile. What I am trying to discover is a principle that will enable me to come to the nearest possible to his action as it ought to influence the entire course of my life so far as my wealth and its use are concerned. That will take time, said the minister slowly. All the rest of the room was thinking hard of the same thing. Milton Wright told something of his experience. He was gradually working on a plan for his business relations with his employees, and it was opening up a new world to him and to them. A few of the young men told a special attempt to answer the question. There was almost general consent over the fact that the application of the Christ spirit in practice to the everyday life was the serious thing. It required a knowledge of him and an insight into his motives that most of them did not yet possess. When they finally adjourned after a slight prayer that marked with growing power the divine presence, they went away discussing earnestly their difficulties and seeking light from one another. Rachel Winslow and Virginia Page went out together. Edward Norman and Milton Wright became so interested in their mutual conference that they walked on past Norman's house and came back together. Jasper Chase and the president of the Endeavor Society stood talking earnestly in one corner of the room. Alexander Powers and Henry Maxwell remained even after the others had gone. I want you to come down to the shops tomorrow and see my plan and talk to the men. Somehow I feel as if you could get nearer to them than anyone else just now. I don't know about that, but I will come, replied Mr. Maxwell a little sadly. How was he fitted to stand before two or three hundred working men and give them a message? Yet in the moment of his weakness he asked the question. He rebuked himself for it. What would Jesus do? That was an end to the discussion. He went down the next day and found Mr. Powers in his office. It lacked a few minutes of twelve and the superintendent said, come upstairs and I'll show you what I've been trying to do. They went through the machine shop, climbed a long flight of stairs and entered a very large empty room. It had once been used by the company for a storeroom. Since making that promise a week ago I've had a good many things to think of, said the superintendent. And among them is this. The company gives me the use of this room and I'm going to fit it up with tables and a coffee plant in the corner there where those steam pipes are. My plan is to provide a good place where the men can come up and eat their noon lunch and give them two or three times a week the privilege of a 15-minute talk on some subject that will be real help to them in their lives. Maxwell looked surprised and asked if the men would come for any such purpose. Yes, they'll come. After all, I know the men pretty well. They are among the most intelligent working men in the country today. But they are as a whole entirely removed from church influenced. I ask what would Jesus do? And among other things it seemed to me that he would begin to act in some way to add to the lives of these men more physical and spiritual comfort. It's a very little thing, this room and what it represents. But I acted on the first impulse to do the first thing that appealed to my good sense. And I want to work out this idea. I want you to speak to the men when they come up at noon. I've asked them to come up and see the place and I'll tell them something about it. Maxwell was ashamed to say how uneasy he felt at being asked to speak a few words to a company of working men. How could he speak without notes or to such a crowd? He was honestly in a condition of genuine fright over the prospect. He actually felt afraid of facing those men. He shrank from the ordeal of confronting such a crowd, so different from the Sunday audiences he was familiar with. There were a dozen rude benches and tables in the room and when the noon whistle sounded, the men poured upstairs from the machine shops below and seating themselves at the tables began to eat their lunch. There were present about 300 of them. They had read the superintendent's notice which he had posted up in various places and came largely out of curiosity. They were favorably impressed. The room was large and airy, free from smoke and dust and well warmed from the steam pipes. At about 20 minutes to one, Mr. Powers told the men what he had in mind. He spoke very simply, like one who understands thoroughly the character of his audience and then introduced the reverend Henry Maxwell of First Church, his pastor, who had consented to speak for a few minutes. Maxwell will never forget the feeling with which for the first time he stood before the grimy-faced audience of working men. Like hundreds of other ministers, he had never spoken to any gatherings, except those made up of people of his own class in the sense that they were familiar in their dress and education and habits. This was a new world to him and nothing but his new rule of conduct could have made possible his message and its effect. He spoke on the subject of satisfaction with life, what caused it, what its real sources were. He had the great good sense on this his first appearance, not to recognize the men as a class distinct from himself. He did not use the term working man and did not say a word to suggest any difference between their lives and his own. The men were pleased. A good many of them shook hands with him before going down to their work. And the minister telling it all to his wife when he reached home said that never in all his life had he known the delight. He then felt at having the handshake from man of physical labor. The day marked an important one in his Christian experience, more important than he knew. It was the beginning of a fellowship between him and the working world. It was the first plank laid down to help the bridge, the chasm between the church and labor and Raymond. Alexander Powers went back to his desk that afternoon much pleased with his plan and seeing much help in it for the men. He knew where he could get some good tables from an abandoned eating house at one of the stations down the road. And he saw how the coffee arrangement could be made a very attractive feature. The men had responded even better than he had anticipated, and the whole thing could not help being a great benefit to them. He took up the routine of his work with a glow of satisfaction. After all, he wanted to do as Jesus would, he said to himself. It was nearly four o'clock when he opened one of the company's long envelopes, which he supposed contained orders for the purchasing of stores. He ran over the first page of typewriter and matter in his usual quick business like manner before he saw that what he was reading was not intended for his office, but for the superintendent of the freight department. He turned over a page mechanically, not meaning to read what was not addressed to him. But before he knew it, he was in possession of evidence which conclusively proved that the company was engaged in a systematic violation of the interstate commerce laws of the United States. It was as distinct and unequivocal a breaking of law as if a private citizen should enter a house and rob the inmates. The discrimination shown in rebates was in total contempt of all the statutes. Under the laws of the state, it was also a distinct violation of certain provisions recently passed by the legislature to prevent railroad trusts. There was no question that he had, in his hands, evidence sufficient to convict the company of willful, intelligent violation of the law of the commission and the law of the state also. He dropped the papers on his desk as if they were poison and instantly the question flashed across his mind. What would Jesus do? He tried to shut the question out. He tried to reason with himself by saying it was none of his business. He had known in a more less definite way as did nearly all the officers of the company that this had been going on right along on nearly all the roads. He was not in a position knowing to his place in the shops to prove anything direct and he had regarded it as a matter which had not concerned him at all. The papers now before him revealed the entire affair. They had, through some carelessness, been addressed to him. What business of his was it? If he saw a man entering his neighbor's house to steal, would it not be his duty to inform the officers of the law? Was a railroad company any such different thing? Was it under a different rule of conduct so that it could rob the public and defy law and be undisturbed because it was such a great organization? What would Jesus do? Then it was his family. Of course if he took any steps to inform the commission it would mean the loss of his position. His wife and daughter always had always enjoyed luxury in a good place in society. If he came out against this lawlessness as a witness it would drag him into the courts. His motives would be misunderstood and the whole thing would end in his disgrace and loss of his position. Surely it was none of his business. He could easily get the papers back to the freight department and no one be the wiser. Let the iniquity go on. Let the law be defied. What was it to him? He would work out his plans for bettering the condition just before him. What more could a man do in this railroad business when there was so much going on anyway that made it impossible to live by the Christian standard? But what would Jesus do if he knew the facts? That was the question that confronted Alexander Powers as the day wore into evening. The lights in the office had been turned on. The war of the great machine and the clash of the planers in the big shop continued until six o'clock. Then the whistle blew. The engine slowed up. The men dropped their tools and ran for the blockhouse. Powers heard the familiar click-click of the clocks as the men filed past the window of the blockhouse just outside. He said to his clerk, I'm not going out just yet. I have something extra tonight. He waited until he had heard the last man deposit his block. The men behind the block case went out. The engineer and his assistants had worked for half an hour, but they went out by another door. 6 If any man cometh unto me, and hath not his own father, and mother, and wife, and children, and brethren, and sisters, yea, and his own life also, he cannot be my disciple. And whosoever forsakeeth not all that he hath, he cannot be my disciple. When Rachel went slow and Virginia Page separated after the meeting at the first church on Sunday, they agreed to continue their conversation the next day. Virginia asked Rachel to come and lunch with her at noon. And Rachel accordingly rang the bell at the Page mansion about half past eleven. Virginia herself met her, and the two were soon talking earnestly. The fact is, Rachel was saying after they had been talking a few moments, I cannot reconcile it with my judgment of what Christ would do. I cannot tell another person what to do, but I feel that I ought not to accept this offer. What will you do then? asked Virginia with great interest. I don't know yet, but I have decided to refuse this offer. Rachel picked up a letter that had been lying in her lap and ran over its contents again. It was a letter from the manager of a comic opera offering her a place with a large traveling company of the season. The salary was a very large figure, and the prospect held out by the manager was flattering. He had heard Rachel saying that Sunday morning when the stranger had interrupted the service. He had been much impressed. There was money in that voice, and it ought to be used in comic opera, so said the letter. And the manager wanted a reply as soon as possible. There is no great virtue in saying no to this offer when I have the other one. Rachel went on thoughtfully. That's harder to decide. But I've about made up my mind. To tell the truth, Virginia, I'm completely convinced, in the first case, that Jesus would never use any talent like a good voice just to make money. But now, take this concert offer. Here is a reputable company to travel with an impersonator and a violinist and a male quartet. All people have good reputation. I'm asked to go as one of the company and sing leading soprano. The salary, I mentioned it tonight, is guaranteed to be $200 a month for the season. But I don't feel satisfied that Jesus would go. What do you think?  I believe Mr. Maxill was right, when he said we must each one of us decide according to the judgment we feel for ourselves to be Christ-like. I am having a harder time than you are, dear, to decide what he would do. Are you? Rachel asked. She rose and walked over to the window and looked out. Virginia came and stood by her. The street was crowded with life, and the two young women looked at it silently for a moment. Suddenly Virginia broke out as Rachel had never heard her before. Rachel, what does all this contrast to conditions mean to you as you ask this question of what Jesus would do? It maddens me to think that the society in which I've been brought up, the same to which we are both said to belong, is satisfied, year after year, to go on dressing and eating and having a good time, giving and receiving entertainment, spending its money on houses and luxuries, and occasionally to ease its conscience, donating without any personal sacrifice, a little money to charity. I have been educated as you have in one of the most expensive schools in America, launched into society as an heiress, supposed to be in a very enviable position. I'm perfectly well. I can travel or stay at home. I can do as I please. I can gratify almost anyone to desire. And yet when I honestly try to imagine Jesus living the life I have lived and have expected to live, and doing so for the rest of my life, what thousands of other rich people do, I'm under condemnation for being one of the most wicked, selfish, useless creatures in all the world. I've not looked out of this window for weeks without a feeling of horror toward myself as I see the humanity that passes by this house. Virginia turned away and walked up and down the room, Rachel watched her and could not repress the rising tide of her own growing definition of discipleship. Of what Christian use was her own talent of song? Was the best she could do to sell her talent for so much a month, go on a concert company's tour, dress beautifully, enjoy the excitement of public applause and gain a reputation as a great singer? Was that what Jesus would do? She was not morbid. She was in sound health and was conscious of great powers as a singer, and knew that if she went out into public life she could make a great deal of money and become well-known. It is doubtful if she overestimated her ability to accomplish all she thought herself capable of. And Virginia, what she had just said, smoked Rachel with great force because of the similar position in which the two friends found themselves. Lunch was announced and they went out and were joined by Virginia's grandmother, Madam Page, a handsome, stately woman of 65, and Virginia's brother, Rollin, a young man who spent most of his time at one of the clubs and had no ambition for anything but a growing admiration for Rachel Winslow. And whenever she dined or lunched at the pages, if he knew of it, he always planned to be at home. These three made up the Page family. Virginia's father had been a banker and grain speculator.  The grandmother, a Southern woman, in birth and training had all the traditions and feelings that accompany the possession of wealth and social standing that have never been distributed. She was a shrewd, careful businesswoman of more than average ability. The family property and wealth were invested in large measure under her personal care. Virginia's portion was, without any restriction, her own. She had been trained by her father to understand the ways of the business world, and even the grandmother had been compelled to acknowledge the girl's capacity for taking care of her own money. Perhaps two persons could not be found anywhere less capable of understanding a girl like Virginia than Madam Page and Rollin. Rachel, who had known the family since she was a girl playmate of Virginia's, could not help thinking of what confronted Virginia in her own home when she once decided on the course which she honestly believed Jesus would take. Today, at lunch, she recalled Virginia's outbreak in the front room, she tried to picture the scene that would at some time occur between Madam Page and her granddaughter. I understand that you're going on the stage, Ms. Winslow. We shall all be delighted, I'm sure, said Rollin during the conversation, which had not been very animated. Rachel colored and felt annoyed. Who told you, she asked, while Virginia had been very silent and reserved, suddenly roused herself and appeared ready to join in the talk. Oh, we hear a thing or two on the street. Besides, everyone saw Crandall, the manager at church two weeks ago. He doesn't go to church to hear the preaching. In fact, I know other people who don't either, not when there's something better to hear. Rachel did not color this time, but she answered quietly, You're mistaken, I'm not going on the stage. It's a great pity. You'd make a hit. Everybody is talking about your singing. This time, Rachel flushed with genuine anger. Before she could say anything, Virginia broke in. Whom do you mean by everybody? Whom? I mean all the people who hear Ms. Winslow on Sundays. What other time do they hear her? It's a great pity, I say, that the general public outside of Raymond cannot hear her voice. Let's talk about something else, said Rachel a little sharply. Madam Page glanced at her and spoke with a gentle courtesy. My dear, Rollin never could pay an indirect compliment. He is like his father in that. But we are all curious to know something of your plans. We claim the right from Old acquaintance, you know. And Virginia has already told us of your concert company offer. I suppose, of course, that was public property, said Virginia smiling across the table. I was in the news office day before yesterday. Yes, yes, replied Rachel hastily. I understand that, Madam Page. Well, Virginia and I have been talking about it. I have decided not to accept, and that is as far as I've gone at present. Rachel was conscious of the fact that the conversation had up to this point been narrowing her hesitation concerning the concert company's offer, down to a decision that would absolutely satisfy her own judgment of Jesus' probable actions. It had been the last thing in the world, however, that she had desired to have her decision made in any way so public as this. Somehow, what Rollin Page had said, in his manner in saying it, had hastened her decision in the matter. Would you mind telling us, Rachel, your reasons for refusing the offer? It looks like a great opportunity for a young girl like you. Don't you think the general public ought to hear you? I feel like Rollin about that, a voice like yours belongs to a larger audience than Raymond in the first church. Rachel Winslow was naturally a girl of great reserve. She shrank from making her plans or her thoughts public.  She spoke now and replied to Madam Page in one of those rare moments of unreserve that added to the attractiveness of her whole character. I have no reason other than a conviction that Jesus Christ would do the same thing, she said, looking at Madam Page's eyes with a clear earnest gaze. Madam Page turned red and Rollin stared. Before her grandmother could say anything, Virginia spoke. Her rising colors showed how she was stirred. Virginia's pale, clear complexion was that of help, but it was generally in marked contrast with Rachel's tropical type of beauty. Grandmother, you know we promise to make that the standard of our conduct for a year. Mr. Maxwell's proposition was plain to all who heard it. We have not been able to arrive at our decisions very rapidly. The difficulty in knowing what Jesus would do has perplexed Rachel and me a good deal. Madam Page looked sharply at Virginia before she said anything. Of course I understand Mr. Maxwell's statement. It is perfectly impractical to put it into practice. I felt confident at the time that those who promised would find it out after a trial and abandon it as visionary and absurd. I have nothing to say about Miss Winslow's affairs, but she paused and continued with a sharpness that was new to Rachel. I hope you have no foolish notions in this matter, Virginia. I have a great many notions, replied Virginia quietly. Whether they are foolish or not depends upon my right understanding of what he would do, and as soon as I find out, I shall do it. Excuse me, ladies, said Rollin rising from the table. The conversation is getting beyond my depth. I shall retire to the library for cigar. He went out of the dining room and there was silence for a moment. Madam Page waited until the servant had brought in something and then asked her to go out. She was angry and her anger was formidable, although checked in some measure by the presence of Rachel. I am older by several years than you, young ladies, she said, and her traditional type of bearing seemed to Rachel to rise up like a great frozen wall between her and every conception of Jesus as a sacrifice. What you have promised in a spirit of false emotion, I presume, is impossible in performance. Do you mean, Grandmother, that we cannot possibly act as our Lord would? Or do you mean that if we try to, we shall offend the customs and prejudices of society? It is not required. It is not necessary. Besides, how can you act with any— Madam Page paused, broke off her sentence, and then turned to Rachel.  My dear, is it not foolish? What do you expect to do with your voice, anyway? I don't know what mother will say yet, Rachel answered, with a great shrinking from trying to give her mother's probable answer. If there was a woman in all raiment with great ambitions for her daughter's success as a singer, Mrs. Winslow was that woman. Oh, you will see it in a different light after wise or thought of it, my dear. Continue, Madam Page, rising from the table. You will live to regret it if you do not accept the concert the companies offer, or something like it. CHAPTER VII Rachel was glad to escape and be by herself. A plan was slowly forming in her mind, and she wanted to be alone and think it out carefully. But before she had walked two blocks, she was annoyed to find Rowland Page walking beside her. Sorry to disturb your thoughts, Miss Winslow, but I happen to be going your way and had an idea you might not object. In fact, I've been walking here for a whole block, and you haven't objected. I did not see you, said Rachel briefly. I wouldn't mind that if you only thought of me once in a while, said Rowland, suddenly. He took one last nervous puff on his cigar, tossed it into the street, and walked along with a pale look on his face. Rachel was surprised, but not startled. She had known Rowland as a boy, and there had been a time when they had used each other's first name familiarly. Lately, however, something in Rachel's manner had put an end to that. She was used to his direct attempts at compliments, and was sometimes amused by them. Today, she honestly wished him anywhere else. Do you ever think of me, Miss Winslow? Ask Rowland after a pause. Oh, yes, quite often, said Rachel with a smile. Are you thinking of me now? Yes, that is yes, I am. What? Do you want me to be absolutely truthful? Of course. Then I was thinking that I wished you were not here. Rowland bit his lip and looked gloomy. Now, look here, Rachel. Oh, I know that's forbidden, but I've got to speak sometime. You know how I feel. What makes you treat me so? You used to like me a little, you know. Did I? Of course, we used to get on very well as a boy and girl, but we're older now. Rachel still spoke in the light, easy way she had used since her first annoyance at seeing him. She was still somewhat preoccupied with her plan, which had been disturbed by Rowland's sudden appearance. They walked along in silence a little way. The avenue was full of people. Among the person's passing was Jasper Chase. He saw Rachel and Rowland and bowed as they went by. Rowland was watching Rachel closely. I wish I was Jasper Chase. Perhaps I would stand some chance then, he said moodily. Rachel colored in spite of herself. She did not say anything and quickened her pace a little. Rowland seemed determined to say something, and Rachel seemed helpless to prevent him, after all, she thought. He might as well know the truth one time as another. You know well enough, Rachel, how I feel toward you. Isn't there any hope? I could make you happy. I've loved you a good many years. Why, how old do you think I am? Broken Rachel with a nervous laugh. She was shaken out of her usual poise of manner.  I'm not, but it's useless for you to speak, Rowland, said Rachel after little hesitation, and then using his name in such a frank, simple way that he could attach no meaning to it beyond the familiarity of the old family acquaintance. It is impossible. She was still a little agitated by the fact of receiving a proposal of marriage on the avenue. But the noise on the street and sidewalk made the conversation as private as if they were in the house. Would, that is, do you think if you gave me time, I would know, said Rachel. She spoke firmly, perhaps she thought afterwards, although she did not mean to. She spoke harshly. They walked on for some time without a word. They were nearing Rachel's home, and she was anxious to end the scene. As they turned off the avenue into one of the quieter streets, Rowland spoke suddenly with more manliness than he had yet shown. There was a distinct note of dignity in his voice that was new to Rachel. Miss Winslow, I ask you to be my wife. Is there any hope for me that you will ever consent? None in the least, Rachel spoke decidedly. Will you tell me why? He asked the question as if he had a right to a truthful answer. Because I do not feel towards you, as a woman ought to feel toward a man she marries. In other words, you do not love me. I do not, and I cannot. Why? That was another question Rachel was a little surprised that he should ask it. Because she hesitated for fear she might say too much, and attempt to speak the exact truth. Tell me just why. You can't hurt me more than you have already. Well, I do not, and I cannot love you because you have no purpose in life, what do you ever do to make the world better?  In amusements, in travel, in luxury. What is there in such a life to attract a woman? Not much, I guess, said Roland with a bitter laugh. Still, I don't know that I am any worse than the rest of the men around me. I am not so bad as some. I am glad to know your reasons. He suddenly stopped, took off his hat, bowed gravely, and turned back. Rachel went on home and hurried into a room, disturbed in many ways by the event, which had so unexpectedly thrust itself into her experience. When she had time to think at all over, she found herself condemned by the very judgment she had passed on Roland Page. What purpose had she in life? She had been abroad and studied music with one of the famous teachers of Europe. She had come home to Raymond and been singing in the First Church Choir now for a year. She was well paid. Up to that Sunday, two weeks ago, she had been quite satisfied with herself and with her position. She had shared her mother's admission and anticipated growing triumphs in the musical world. What possible career was before her except the regular career of every singer? She asked the question again in the light of her recent reply to Roland. Ask again! If she had any very great purpose in life herself, what would Jesus do? There was a fortune in her voice. She knew it, not necessarily as a matter of personal pride, professional egotism, but simply as a fact. And she was obliged to acknowledge that until two weeks ago, she had purpose to use her voice to make money and win admiration and applause. Was that a much higher purpose, after all, than Roland Page lived for? She sat in her room a long time and finally went downstairs, resolved to have a frank talk with her mother about the concert company's offer, and the new plan, which we was gradually shaping in her mind. She already had one talk with her mother and knew that she expected Rachel to accept the offer and enter on a successful career as a public singer. Mother, Rachel said, coming at once to the point, much as she dreaded the interview, I have decided not to go out with the company. I have a good reason for it. Mrs. Winslow was a large, handsome woman, fond of much company, ambitious for distinction in society, and devoted, according to her definitions of success, to the success of her children. Her youngest boy, Louis, two years younger than Rachel, was ready to graduate from a military academy in the summer. Meanwhile, she and Rachel were at home together. Rachel's father, like Virginia's, had died while the family was abroad. Like Virginia, she found herself under her present rule of conduct in complete antagonism with her own immediate home circle. Mrs. Rachel waited for Rachel to go on. You know the promise I made two weeks ago, mother? Mr. Maxwell's promise? No, mine. You know what it was. Do you not, mother? I suppose I do. Of course, all the church members mean to imitate Christ and follow Him as far as is consistent with our present-day surroundings. But what is that to do with your decision in the concert company matter? It has everything to do with it. After asking what would Jesus do, and going to the source of authority for wisdom, I have been obliged to say that I do not believe He would, in my case, make that use of my voice. Why? Is there anything wrong about such a career? No, I don't know that I can say there is. Do you presume to sit in judgment on other people who go out to sing in this way? Do you presume to say they are doing what Christ would not do? Mother, I wish you to understand me. I judge no one else. I condemn no other professional singer. I simply decide my own course. As I look at it, I have a conviction that Jesus would do something else. What else? Mrs. Wilson had not yet lost her temper. She did not understand the situation, nor Rachel, in the midst of it. But she was anxious that her daughter's course should be as distinguished as her natural gifts promised, and she felt confident that when the present unusual religious excitement in the first church had passed away, Rachel would go on with her public life according to the wishes of the family. She was totally unprepared for Rachel's next remark. What? Something that will serve mankind where it most needs the service of song. Mother, I have made it my mind to use my voice in some way so as to satisfy my own soul that I am doing something better than pleasing fashionable audiences or making money or even gratifying my own love of singing. I am going to do something that will satisfy me when I ask what would Jesus do. I am not satisfied, it cannot be, when I think of myself as singing myself into the career of a concert company performer. Rachel spoke with a vigor and earnestness that surprised her mother. But Mrs. Winslow was angry now, and she never tried to conceal her feelings. It is simply absurd, Rachel. You are fanatic. What can you do? The world has been served by men and women who have given it other things that were gifts. Why should I, because I am blessed with a natural gift, at once proceed to put a market price on it and make all the money I can out of it? You know, mother, that you have taught me to think of my musical career always in the light of financial and social success. I have been unable, since I made my promise two weeks ago, to imagine Jesus joining a concert company to do what I should do and live the life I should have to live if I joined it. Mrs. Winslow rose and then sat down again. With a great effort she composed herself. What do you intend to do then? You have not answered my question. I shall continue to sing for the time being in church. I am pledged to sing there through the spring. During the week I am going to sing at the White Cross meetings down at the rectangle. What? Rachel Winslow, do you know what you are saying?  Rachel almost quailed before her mother. For a moment she shrank back and was silent. Then she spoke firmly. I know very well. That is the reason I am going. Mr. and Mrs. Gray have been working there several weeks. I learned only this morning that they want singers from the churches to help them in their meetings. They use a tent. It is in a part of the city where a Christian work is most needed. I shall offer them my help. Mother, Rachel cried out with the first passionate utterance she had yet used. I want to do something that will cost me something in the way of sacrifice. I know you will not understand me. But I am hungry to suffer for something. What have we done all our lives for the suffering sinning side of Raymond? How much have we denied ourselves or given up our personal ease and pleasure to bless the place in which we live or imitate the life of the saviour of the world? Are we always to go on doing as society selfishly dictates, moving on its little narrow round of pleasures and entertainments and never knowing the pain of things that cost? Are you preaching at me? Asked Mrs. Winslow slowly. Rachel rose and understood her mother's words. No, I am preaching at myself. She replied gently. She paused a moment as if she thought her mother would say something more and then went out of the room. When she reached her own room she felt that so far as her own mother was concerned she could expect no sympathy nor even a fair understanding from her. She kneeled. It is safe to say that within the two weeks since Henry Maxwell's church had faced that shabby figure with a faded hat, more members of his parish had been driven to their knees in prayer than during all the previous term of his pastorate. She rose and her face was wet with tears. She sat thoughtfully a little while and then wrote a note to Virginia Page. She sent it to her by a messenger and then went downstairs and told her mother that she and Virginia were going down to the rectangle that evening to see Mr. and Mrs. Gray, the evangelist. Virginia's uncle Dr. West will go with us if she goes. I've asked her to call him up by telephone and go with us. The doctor is a friend of the Gray's and attended some of the meetings last winter. Mrs. Winslow did not say anything. Her manner showed her complete disapproval of Rachel's course and Rachel felt her unspoken bitterness. About seven o'clock the doctor and Virginia appeared and together the three started for the scene of the White Cross meetings. The rectangle was the most notorious district in Raymond. It was on the territory close by the railroad shops and the packing houses. The great slum and tenement district of Raymond congested its worst and most wretched elements about the rectangle. This was a barren field used in the summer by circus companies and wandering showmen.  The first church of Raymond had never touched the rectangle problem. It was too dirty, too coarse, too sinful, too awful for close contact. Let us be honest. There had been an attempt to cleanse this sore spot by sending down an occasional committee of singers or Sunday school teachers or gospel visitors from various churches. But the first church of Raymond, as an institution, had never really done anything to make the rectangle any less a stronghold of the devil as the years went by. Into this heart of the coarse part of the scene of Raymond, the traveling evangelist and his brave little wife had pitched a good-sized tent and begun meetings. It was the spring of the year and the evenings were beginning to be pleasant. The evangelist had asked for the help of Christian people and received more than the usual amount of encouragement. But they felt a great need of more and better music. During the meetings, on the Sunday just gone, the assistant at the organ had been taken ill. The volunteers from the city were few, and the voices were of ordinary quality. There will be a small meeting tonight, John, said his wife, as they entered the tent till the after seven o'clock and began to arrange the chairs and light up. Yes, I fear so. Mr. Gray was a small energetic man with a pleasant voice and the courage of a high-born fighter. He had already made friends in the neighborhood, and one of his converts, a heavy-faced man who had just come in, began to help in the arranging of seats. It was after eight o'clock when Alexander Powers opened the door of his office and started for home. He was going to take a car at the corner of the rectangle, but he was roused by a voice coming from the tent. It was the voice of Rachel Rinslow. It struck through his consciousness of struggle over his own question that had sent him into the Divine Presence for an answer. He had not yet reached a conclusion. He was tortured with uncertainty. His whole previous course of action as a railroad man was the poorest possible preparation for anything sacrificial. And he could not yet say what he would do in the matter. Hark! What was she singing? How did Rachel Rinslow happen to be down here? Several windows nearby went up. Some men quarreling near a saloon stopped and listened. Other figures were walking rapidly in the direction of the rectangle in the tent. Surely Rachel Rinslow had never sung like that in the first church. It was a marvelous voice. What was it she was singing? Again Alexander Powers, superintendent of the machine shops, paused and listened. Where he leads me, I will follow. Where he leads me, I will follow. Where he leads me, I will follow. I will go with him, with him, all the way. The brutal course and pure life of the rectangle stirred itself into new life. As the song, as pure as the surroundings were vile, floated out and into saloon, and then in foul lodging, someone stumbled hastily by Alexander Powers, and said in answer to a question, detents beginning to run over to night. That's what the talent calls music, eh? For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Vaughan Ollman. In His Steps by Charles Monroe Sheldon. If any man would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily, and follow me. Henry Maxwell paced his study back and forth. It was Wednesday, and he had started to think out the subject of his evening service, which fell upon that night. Out of one of his study windows he could see the tall chimney of the railroad shops. The top of the evangelist's tent showed just over the buildings around the rectangle. He looked out of his window every time he turned in his walk. After a while he sat down in his desk and drew a large piece of paper toward him. After thinking several moments, he wrote in large letters the following. A number of things that Jesus would probably do in this parish. Live in a simple plain manner, without needless luxury on the one hand, or undue asceticism on the other. Preach fearlessly to the hypocrites and the church, no matter what their social importance or wealth. Show in some practical form his sympathy and love for the common people, as well as for the well-to-do, educated, refined people who make up the majority of the parish. Identify himself with the great causes of humanity in some personal way that would call for self-denial and suffering. Preach against the saloon enraiment. Become known as a friend and companion of the sinful people in the rectangle. Give up the summer trip to Europe this year. I've been abroad twice and cannot claim any special need of rest. I am well and could forego this pleasure, using the money, for someone who needs a vacation more than I do. There are probably plenty of such people in the city. He was conscious, with a humility that was once a stranger to him, that his outline of Jesus's probable action was painfully lacking in depth and power. But he was seeking carefully for concrete shapes into which he might cast his thought of Jesus's conduct. Nearly every point he had put down meant, for him, a complete overturning of the custom and habit of years in the ministry. In spite of that, he still searched deeper for sources of the Christ-like spirit. He did not attempt to write any more, but sat at his desk, absorbed in his effort to catch more and more the spirit of Jesus in his own life. He had forgotten the particular subject for his prayer meeting, with which he had begun his morning study. He was so absorbed over his thought that he did not hear the bell ring. He was roused by the servant who announced to call her. He had sent up his name, Mr. Gray. Maxwell stepped to the head of the stairs and asked Gray to come up. So Gray came up and stated the reason for his call. I want your help, Mr. Maxwell. Of course you have heard what a wonderful meeting we had Monday night and last night. Miss Winslow has done more with her voice than I could do, and the tent won't hold the people. I have heard of that. It is the first time the people there have heard her. It is no wonder they are attracted. It has been a wonderful revelation to us and a most encouraging event in our work. But I came to ask you if you could not come down tonight and preach. I am suffering from a severe cold. I do not dare trust my voice again. I know it's asking good deal from such a busy man. But if you can't come, say so frankly, and I'll try somewhere else. I'm sorry, but it's my regular prayer meeting night, began Henry Maxwell. Then he flushed and added I shall be able to arrange it in some way so as to come down. You can count on me. Gray thanked him earnestly and rose to go. Won't you stay a minute, Gray, and let us have a prayer together? Yes, said Gray simply. So the two men kneeled together in the study. Henry Maxwell prayed like a child. Gray was touched to tears as he knelt there. There was something almost pitiful in the way this man, who had lived his ministerial life in such a narrow limit of exercise, now begged for wisdom and strength to speak a message to the people in the rectangle. Gray rose and held out his hand.  I'm sure this spirit will give you power tonight. Henry Maxwell made no answer. He did not even trust himself to say that he hoped so. But he thought of his promise and it brought him a certain peace that was refreshing to his heart and mind a light. So that is how it came about, that when the first church audience came into the lecture room that evening, it met with another surprise. There was an unusually large number present. The prayer meetings ever since that remarkable Sunday morning had been attended as never before in the history of the first church. Mr. Maxwell came at once to the point. I feel that I am called to go down to the rectangle tonight and I will leave it with you to say whether you will go on with this meeting here. I think perhaps the best plan would be for a few volunteers to go down to the rectangle with me, prepared to help in the after meeting, if necessary, and the rest remain here and pray that the spirit's power may go with us. So half a dozen of the men went with the pastor and the rest of the audience stayed in the lecture room. Maxwell could not escape the thought as he left the room that probably in his entire church membership there might not be found a score of disciples who were capable of doing work that would successfully lead needy, sinful men into the knowledge of Christ. The thought did not linger in his mind to vex him as he went his way, but it was simply a part of his whole new conception of the meaning of Christian discipleship. When he and his little company of volunteers reached the rectangle, the tent was already crowded. They had difficulty getting to the platform. Rachel was there with Virginia and Jasper Chase, who had come instead of the doctor tonight. When the meeting began with a song in which Rachel sang the solo and the people were asked to join in the chorus, not a foot of standing room was left in the tent. The night was mild and the sides of the tent were up and a great border of faces stretched around, looking in and forming part of the audience. After the singing and a prayer by one of the city pastors who was present, Gray stated the reason for his inability to speak and in a simple manner turned the service over to Brother Maxwell of the First Church. Who's a da bloke? asked a hoarse voice near the outside of the tent. The First Church parson who got the whole high tone swell outfoot tonight. Did you say First Church? I know him. My landlords got a front pew up there, said another voice, and there was a laugh, for the speaker was a saloon keeper. Throughout the lifeline, across the dark wave began a drunken man nearby, singing in such an unconscious imitation of a local traveling singer's nasal tone that roars of laughter and jeers of approval rose around him. The people in the tent turned the direction of disturbance. There were shouts of put him out, give the First Church a chance, song, song, give us another song. Henry Maxwell stood up, and a great wave of actual terror went over him. This was not like preaching to the well-dressed, respectable, good-mannered people up on the boulevard. He began to speak, but the confusion increased. Gray went down into the crowd, but not seemed to be able to quiet it. Maxwell raised his arm in his voice. The crowd in the tent began to pay some attention, but the noise on the outside increased. In a few minutes the audience was beyond his control. He turned to Rachel with a sad smile. Sing something, Miss Winslow.  It was Rachel's opportunity, and she was fully equal to it. Virginia was at the organ, and Rachel asked her to play, if you note to the hymn. Save here I follow on, guided by thee, seeing not yet the hand that leadeth me. Hushed be my heart, and still, fear I know farther ill. Only to meet thy will, my will shall be. Rachel had not sung the first line before the people in the tent were all turned toward her, hushed and reverent. Before she had finished the verse the rectangle was subdued and tamed. It lay like some wild beast at her feet, and she sang it into harmlessness. Ah, what were the flippant, perfumed, critical audiences in concert halls, compared with this dirty, drunken, impure, besotted mass of humanity, that trembled and wept, and grew strangely sadly thoughtful under the touch of this divine ministry of this beautiful young woman. Mr. Maxwell, as he raised his head and saw the transformed mob, had a glimpse of something that Jesus would probably do with a voice like Rachel Winslow's. Jasper Chase sat with his eyes on the singer, and his greatest longing as an ambitious author was swallowed up in his thought of what Rachel Winslow's love might sometime mean to him. And over in the shadow outside stood the last person anyone might have expected to see at a gospel tent. Roland Page, who, jostled on every side by rough men and women who stared at the swell in fine clothes, seemed careless of his surroundings, and at the same time evidently swayed by the power that Rachel possessed, he had just come over from the club. Neither Rachel nor Virginia saw him that night. The song was over. Maxwell rose again. This time he felt calmer. What would Jesus do? He spoke as he thought once he never could speak. Who were these people? They were immortal souls. What was Christianity? A calling of sinners, not the righteous, to repentance. How would Jesus speak? What would he say? He could not tell all that his message would include. But he felt sure of a part of it. And in that certainty he spoke on. Never before had he felt compassion for the multitude. What had the multitude been to him during his ten years in the first church, but a vague, dangerous, dirty, troublesome factor in society, outside of the church and of his reach, an element that caused him occasionally an unpleasant twinge of conscious. A factor in Raymond that was talked about at associations, as the masses, in papers written by the brethren in attempts to show why the masses were not being reached. But tonight as he faced the masses, he asked himself whether, after all, this was not just about such a multitude as Jesus faced oftenest. And he felt the genuine emotion of love for a crowd which is one of the best indications a preacher ever has that he's living close to the heart of the world's eternal life. It is easy to love an individual sinner, especially if he is personally picturesque or interesting. To love a multitude of sinners is distinctively a Christ-like quality. When the meeting closed there was no special interest shown. No one stayed to the after-meeting. The people rapidly melted away from the tent and the saloons, which had been experiencing a dull season while the meetings progressed, again drove a thriving trade. The rectangle, as if to make up for lost time, started in with vigor on its usual night debauch. Maxwell and his little party, including Virginia, Rachel and Jasper Chase, walked down past the row of saloons and dens until they reached the corner where the cars passed. This is a terrible spot, said the ministers he stood waiting for their car. I never realized that Raymond had such a festering sore. It does not seem possible that this is a city full of Christian disciples.  I have thought lately as never before of what Christian people might do to remove the curse of the saloon. Why don't we all act together against it? Why don't the Christian pastors and the church members of Raymond move his one man against the traffic? What would Jesus do? Would he keep silent? Would he vote to license these causes of crime and death? He was talking to himself more than to the others. He remembered that he's always voted for license, and so had nearly all his church members. What would Jesus do? Could he answer that question? Would the master preach and act against the saloon if he lived today? How would he preach and act? Suppose it was not popular to preach against license. Suppose the Christian people thought it was all that could be done to license the evil, and so get revenue from the necessary sin. Or suppose the church members themselves owned the property where the saloon stood. What then? He knew that those were the facts in Raymond. What would Jesus do? He went up into his study the next morning with that question only partly answered. He thought of it all day. He was still thinking of it, and reaching certain real conclusions. When the evening news came, his wife brought it up and sat down a few minutes while he read it to her. The evening news was at present the most sensational paper in Raymond. That is to say it was being edited in such a remarkable fashion that its subscribers had never been so excited over a newspaper before. First they had noticed the absence of a prize fight, and gradually it began to dawn upon them that the news no longer printed accounts of crime with detailed descriptions, or scandals in private life. Then they noticed that the advertisements of liquor and tobacco were dropped, together with certain others of a questionable character. The discontinuance of the Sunday paper caused the greatest comment of all, and now the character of the editorials was creating the greatest excitement. A quotation from the Monday paper of the week will show what Edward Norman was doing to keep his promise. The editorial was headed the moral side of political questions. The editor of the news has always advocated the principles of the great political party at present in power, and has, heretofore, discussed all political questions from the standpoint of expediency, or of belief in the party as opposed to other political organizations. Hereafter, to be perfectly honest with all our readers, the editor will present and discuss all political questions from the standpoint of right and wrong. In other words, the first question asked in this office about any political question will not be, is it in the interests of our party, or is it according to the principles laid down by our party on its platform? But the first question asked will be, is this measure in accordance with the spirit and teachings of Jesus as the author of the greatest standard of life known to men? That is, to be perfectly plain, the moral side of every political question will be considered its most important side, and the ground will be distinctly taken that nations as well as individuals are under the same law to do the things of God as the first rule of action. The same principle will be observed in this office toward candidates for places of responsibility and trust in the Republic. Regardless of party politics, the editor of the news will do all in his power to bring the best men into power, and will not knowingly help to support for office any candidate who is unworthy, no matter how much he may be endorsed by the party. The first question asked about the man and about the measures will be, is he the right man for the place? Is he a good man with ability? Is the measure right? There had been more of this, but we have quoted enough to show the character of the editorial. Hundreds of men in Raymond had read it and rubbed their eyes in amazement. A good many of them had promptly written to the news telling the editor to stop their paper. The paper still came out, however, and was eagerly read all over the city. At the end of a week, Edward Norman knew very well that he was fast losing a large number of subscribers. He faced the conditions calmly, although Clark, the managing editor, grimly anticipated ultimate bankruptcy, especially since Monday's editorial. Tonight, as Maxwell read to his wife, he could see in almost every column evidences of Norman's conscientious obedience to his promise. There was an absence of slangy, sensational scareheads. The reading matter under the headlines was in perfect keeping with them. He noticed in two columns that the reporter's name appeared signed at the bottom, and there was a distinct advance in the dignity and style of the contributions. So Norman is beginning to get his reporters to sign their work. He has talked with me about that. It's a good thing. It fixes responsibility for items where it belongs, and raises the standard of work done. A good thing all around for the public and the writers. Maxwell suddenly paused. His wife looked up from some work she was doing. He was reading something with the utmost interest. Listen to this, Mary, he said. After a moment when his lip trembled. This morning Alexander Powers, superintendent of the L and TRR shops in this city, handed in his resignation to the road, and gave, as his reason, the fact that certain proofs had fallen into his hands of the violation of the interstate commerce law, and also of the state law, which has recently been framed to prevent and punish railroad pooling for the benefit of certain favorite shippers. Mr. Powers states in his resignation that he can no longer consistently withhold the information he possesses against the road. He will be a witness against it. He has placed his evidence against the company in the hands of the commission, and is now for them to take action upon it. The news wishes to express itself on this action of Mr. Powers. In the first place, he has nothing to gain by it. He has lost a very valuable place voluntarily, and by keeping silent he might have retained it. In the second place, we believe his action ought to receive the approval of all thoughtful, honest citizens, who believe in seeing law obeyed and lawbreakers brought to justice. In a case like this, where evidence against a railroad company is generally understood to be almost impossible to obtain, it is the general belief that the officers of the road are often in possession of discriminating facts, but do not consider it to be any of their business to inform the authorities that the law is being defied. The entire result of this effusion of responsibility on the part of those who are responsible is demoralizing to every young man connected with the road. The editor of the news recalls the statements, made by a prominent railroad official in this city a little while ago, that nearly every clerk in a certain department of the road understood that large sums of money were made by shrewd violations of the interstate commerce law, was ready to admire with shrewdness the shrewdness with which it was done, and declared that they would do all the same thing if they were high enough in railroad circles to attempt it.