shall go out into outer darkness. The world will not be
one bit better because you have passed through it."

Sam was incoherent with rage. "See here," he sputtered,
"what do you know about it? I pay my debts. Everybody
knows that."

"Hold on, hold on," the young man said gently, "you pay
the debts that the law compels you to pay. You have to
pay your hired help and your threshing bills, and all
that, because you would be 'sued' if you didn't. There
is one debt that is left to a man's honour, the debt he
owes to God, and to the poor and the needy. Do you pay
that debt?"

"Well, you'll never get a cent out of me anyway. You have
a mighty poor way of asking for money--maybe if you had
taken me the right way you might have got some."

"Excuse me, Mr. Motherwell," the young man replied with
unaffected good humour, "I did not ask you for money at
all. I gave you back what you did give. No member of our
congregation will ask you for any, though there may come
a time when you will ask us to take it."

Sam Motherwell broke into a scornful laugh, and, turning
away, went angrily down the street. The fact that the
minister had given him back his money was a severe shock
to some of his deep-rooted opinions. He had always regarded
churches as greedy institutions, looking and begging for