"What have you been doing?" I inquired.

He laughed. "There, now, God bliss her," he said. "I put a rib in an
umbrella for her, but she said the house was too dirty to read the
Bible in, so she let me read it through the broken window."

All that winter he tinkered and taught. All winter the little ragged
audiences gathered around him in the morning; and often at eventime
when he retreated into a quiet corner to be silent and rest, he found
himself the centre of an inquiring group of his fellow-lodgers.

Instead of uniting himself to the mission, as such men usually do
after their conversion, I advised him to join one of the prominent
churches of the city, in the downtown district. I thought it would be
good for the church. But we both discovered our mistake later. He was
utterly out of keeping with his surroundings. The church he joined was
an institution for the favoured few--and Dowling was a tinker.

His diary of that period is before me as I write, and I am astonished
at the great humility of this simple-minded man.

He had been asked by the minister of his church to call on him; but
his modesty prevented him until hunger forced him to change his mind.
After starving for three days, he made up his mind to accept that
invitation, and reveal his condition to the well-to-do minister of
this well-to-do church. He was poorly clad. It was a very cold winter
day. The streets were covered with slush and snow. On his way he met
an old woman with a shawl around her, a bedraggled dress and wet feet.