"It might be easier to one who is not tempted."
"It might be easier to one who is. No man is tempted beyond his strength, but a sermon is often beyond his powers. I let you know, young man, that a homily may come harder than a virtue."
"How can you stand up and preach as you've been preaching, and then come out of the church and laugh about it!" cried John angrily.
"I'm not laughing about what I preached on," replied the parson with gentleness.
"You are in high spirits! You are gay! You are full of levity!"
"I am full of gladness. I am happy: is that a sin?"
John wheeled on him, stopping short, and pointing back to the church:
"Suppose there'd been a man in that room who was trying to some temptation—more terrible than you've ever known anything about. You'd made him feel that you were speaking straight at him -bidding him do right where it was so much easier to do wrong. You had helped him; he had waited to see you alone, hoping to get more help. Then suppose he had found you as you are now—full of your gladness! He wouldn't have believed in you! He'd have been hardened."
"If he'd been the right kind of man," replied the parson, quickly facing an arraignment had the rancour of denunciation, "he ought to have been more benefited by the sight of a glad man than the sound of a sad sermon. He'd have found in me a man who practises what he preaches: I have conquered my wilderness. But, I think," he added more gravely, "that if any such soul had come to me in his trouble, I could have helped him: if he had let me know what it was, he would have found that I could understand, could sympathize. Still, I don't see why you should condemn my conduct by the test of imaginary cases. I suppose I'm happy now because I'm glad to be with you," and the parson looked the school-master a little reproachfully in the eyes.
"And do you think I have no troubles?" said John, his lips trembling. He turned away and the parson walked beside him.