But when all were seated, he lifted his hand, and in the language they understood, he asked the Father’s blessing. There was a moment then, Rachel, when I felt my heart almost breaking. Here sat the Jesus of the centuries—he who overcame death and hell, who raised the dead and forgave sins, who was one with the Father—here he sat amid these sordid, poverty-stricken humans, accepting their condition, helpless to relieve it—and only half an hour’s ride from where he sat were those who surfeited in luxuries, waited on by swarms of servants, going to sleep in clean and perfumed chambers.

But then I began to get some faint glimmer of his mighty purpose in being there among these people, and to see dimly why he did not, by some stroke of divine power, smite the system under which we live with some sudden catastrophe as a rebuke for its in justice and cruelty.

During the meal, Jesus spoke naturally and helpfully to all. And after everything had been eaten in eager haste, as if time were precious, all went back to work again while Jesus put the little girl on a couch, and Richard and myself removed the dishes, washed them, and put them away.

Just as we finished this work, which Jesus smilingly allowed us to share with him, the door was violently burst open and a drunken man came in. He trod on the paper boxes as he lurched over the floor, and going up to the table where the man Clay Ross was at work, snatched a nearly finished wreath out of his fingers and tore it in pieces. He then reached out two filthy hands and crushed between them a large number of artificial blossoms.

Richard made a stride toward the man to stop him, but then Jesus laid a hand gently on his arm, and Richard drew back.

The drunken man went up to one of the women and struck her over the head and shoulders several drunken blows. The woman uttered feeble cries, and one of the other men tried to protect her, swearing horribly all the time. The drunken man seized a chair and lifted as if to fling it at the man.

At this moment, the little girl awoke, sat up, and began to cry. The drunkard turned as if in fury toward that part of the room, and my heart sank in fear and amazement as I saw him fling the chair toward the child, then stumble over to her—all while Jesus stood silent, calm, motionless.