"It was one of the best sermons I ever heard. But somehow it did not sound sincere."
"What!" exclaimed Philip, almost angrily. If there was one thing he felt sure about, it was the sincerity of his preaching. Then he checked his feeling, as he thought how foolish it would be to get angry at a passing tramp, who was probably a little out of his mind. Yet the man's remark had a strange power over him. He tried to shake it off as he looked harder at him. The man looked over at Philip and repeated gravely, shaking his head, "Not sincere."
Mrs. Strong came back into the room, and Philip motioned her to sit down near him while he said, "And what makes you think I was not sincere?"
"You said the age in which we lived demanded that people live in a far simpler, less extravagant style."
"Yes, that is what I said. I believe it, too," replied Philip, clasping his hands over his knee and gazing at his singular guest with earnestness. The man's thick, white hair glistened in the open firelight like spun glass.
"And you said that Christ would not approve of people spending money for flowers, food and dress on those who did not need it, when it could more wisely be expended for the benefit of those who were in want."
"Yes; those were not my exact words, but that was my idea."
"Your idea. Just so. And yet we have had here in this little lunch, or, as you called it, a 'bite of something,' three different kinds of meat, two kinds of bread, hothouse grapes, and the richest kind of milk."
The man said all this in the quietest, calmest manner possible; and Philip stared at him, more assured than ever that he was a little crazy. Mrs. Strong looked amused, and said, "You seemed to enjoy the lunch pretty well." The man had eaten with a zest that was redeemed from greediness only by a delicacy of manner that no tramp ever possessed.
"My dear madam," said the man, "perhaps this was a case where the food was given to one who stood really in need of it."