Philip and his wife stood by the window looking at the figure outside, and, as it did not move away, at last Philip grew a little impatient and went to the door to open it and ask the man what he meant by staring into people's houses in that fashion.
"Now, do be careful, won't you?" entreated his wife, anxiously.
"Yes, I presume it is some tramp or other wanting food. There's no danger, I know."
He flung the door wide open and called out in his clear, hearty voice:
"Anything you want, friend? Come up and ring the bell if you want to get in and know us, instead of standing there on the walk catching cold and making us wonder who you are."
In response to this frank and informal invitation the figure came forward and slowly mounted the steps of the porch. As the face came into view more clearly, Philip started and fell back a little.
It was not because the face was that of an enemy, nor because it was repulsive, nor because he recognized an old acquaintance. It was a face he had never to his knowledge seen before. Yet the impulse to start back before it seemed to spring from the recollection of just such a countenance moving over his spirit when he was in prayer or in trouble. It all passed in a second's time and then he confronted the man as a complete stranger.
There was nothing remarkable about him. He was poorly dressed and carried a small bundle. He looked cold and tired. Philip, who never could resist the mute appeal of distress in any form, reached out his hand and said kindly, "Come in, my brother, you look cold and weary. Come in and sit down before the fire, and we'll have a bite of lunch. I was just beginning to think of having something to eat, myself."
Philip's wife looked a little remonstrance, but Philip did not see it, and wheeling an easy chair before the fire he made the man sit down, and pulling up a rocker he placed himself opposite.
The stranger seemed a little surprised at the action of the minister, but made no resistance. He took off his hat and disclosed a head of hair white as snow, and said, in a voice that sounded singularly sweet and true: