“Religion is not a thing apart from daily life,” said Elder Malby, speaking more to the listening people than to the priest.  “A truly religious person works with hands and brains as well as prays with lips and heart.  Let me tell you, good people, the ‘Mormons’ have shown to the world that heart and hand, faith and works must go together.  A religion which withdraws itself apart from the common people into seclusions of prayer and contemplation alone is of no value in this world.  The activities of this life and this world is the proper field for religion, for it is here that we prepare for a future life.  The “Mormon” minister can plow, if he is a farmer, as well as preach.  He digs canals, makes roads through the wilderness, provides work and play for those who look to him for guidance.  Again, let me call your attention to something the “Mormon” preacher does:  he preaches for the love of the souls of men, and not for a salary.”

“You’re a tramp,” said the priest.

“Not exactly, my friend,” replied the Elder, looking into the priest’s face.  “I pay my way, from money earned at home on my farm.  Most of the people here know me, but some are strangers.  Let me tell you, briefly, my story.”

“Go on,” some one near the door shouted.

“I was born a few miles from here.  My parents were very poor, but honest and respectable.  I had a longing to go to America, so by dint of long, hard work and saving, I obtained the passage money.  On the way I became acquainted with the Mormons.’  I knew they were the people of God, and I went with them to the West, which was a new country then.  I was a pioneer.  I took up wild, unbroken land, built me a cabin and made me a farm.  It was hard work, but, the exhilaration of working for one’s self gives courage and strength.  Now I have a good farm, and a good house.  I am not rich in worldly wealth.  We must still economize carefully.  Here—­would you like to see my home in America?”

He took from his pocket a photograph and handed it to the nearest person, who passed it on.  “That house I built with my own hands, most of it.  Those trees I planted.  I made the fence and dug the water ditch.  That’s my wife standing by the gate—­yes, the only one I have, or ever had—­that’s my youngest child on the porch, the only one at home now.  The others have married and have homes of their own.  Here, I remember, I received a letter from my wife yesterday.  Would you like to read it, sir?” addressing the priest who was now preparing to leave.

“The letter will prove that I am not a tramp, sir.  Read it aloud to these people.”  The Elder held the letter in his extended hand.

“I’ll have nothing further to do with you.  I don’t want to read your letter,” retorted the priest.

“Read it, read it,” came from a number; but the priest, unheedingly passed out of the door and down the path.  The gate clicked.

“I’ll read it,” volunteered a man, one of the strangers who had come in later.  He took the letter, and read so that all might hear, which was not difficult in that quieted room: