He did not recall his exact statements, but felt a little uneasy as he walked home, for fear he might possibly have influenced his particular audience against the rich as a class.  He had not intended anything of the kind, but had a vague idea that possibly he ought to have guarded some words or sentences more carefully.

He had gone up into his study to finish some work, when the bell rang sharply, and he came down to open the door just as Mrs. Strong came in from the other room, where she had been giving directions to the girl, who had gone upstairs through the kitchen.

The minister and his wife opened the door together, and one of the neighbors rushed into the hall so excited he could hardly speak.

“Oh, Mr. Strong, won’t you go right down to Mr. Winter’s house?  You have more influence with those men than any one around here!”

“What men?”

“The men who are going to kill him if some one doesn’t stop it!”

“What!” cried Philip, turning pale, not from fear, but from self-reproach to think he might have made a mistake.  “Who is trying to kill him—­the mill-men?”

“Yes!  No!  I do not, cannot tell.  But he is in great danger, and you are the only man in this town who can help to save him.  Come!”

Philip turned to his wife.  “Sarah, it is my duty.  If anything should happen to me you know my soul will meet yours at the gates of Paradise.”

He kissed her, and rushed out into the night.

CHAPTER IX.

When Philip reached the residence of Mr. Winter, he found himself at once in the midst of a mob of howling, angry men, who surged over the lawn and tramped the light snow that was falling into a muddy mass over the walks and up the veranda steps.  A large electric lamp out in the street in front of the house threw a light over the strange scene.

Philip wedged his way in among the men, crying out his name, and asking for room to be made so that he could see Mr. Winter.  The crowd, under the impulse which sometimes moves excited bodies of men, yielded to his request.  There were cries of, “Let him have a minister if he wants one!” “Room here for the priest!” “Give the preacher a chance to do some praying where it’s needed mighty bad!” and so on.  Philip found a way opened for him as he struggled toward the house, and he hurried forward fearing some great trouble, but hardly prepared for what he saw when he finally reached the steps of the veranda.

Half a dozen men had the mill-owner in their grasp, having evidently dragged him out of his dining-room.  His coat was half torn off, as if there had been a struggle.  Marks of bloody fingers stained his collar.  His face was white, and his eyes filled with the fear of death.  Within, upon the floor, lay his wife, who had fainted.  A son and a daughter, his two grown-up children, clung terrified to one of the servants, who kneeled half fainting herself by