ip would remain. He then left before the
collection--a thing which he had been repeatedly known to do before, and
which struck the congregation with no alarm. But, from the pew behind,
an eye was upon him. It was the eye of the Professor. What was the
Professor! doing there? The answer was simple enough. He was writing a
book on 'Competition, and the Survival of the Fittest, as displayed
in Modern Sectarianism,' and he had come to this! dissenting place of
worship in quest; of information. Always ardent in the pursuit of
knowledge, he entered the Nihilist's pew the moment that individual
left it, and began to scan the leaves of the hymn-book. To his infinite
amazement, on turning over page 227, he came upon a cunning piece of
machinery, not a musical-box, like those one comes to unexpectedly in
the midst of photograph albums, but a "chef d'ouvre" of Donovan's
own, smouldering away at a great rate. The time was just up; the
collection-boxes were being handed round; instant destruction seemed
inevitable, when, to the amazement of the congregation, the Professor,
starting up, rushed to the altar, and, with _the cool forethought and
intrepidity_ so eminently characteristic of that gifted man, dropped
the hymn-book into the large font, then full of water. The ignited wick
ceased to smoulder; the peril was averted.

But the Nihilist was sought for in vain by the civil authorities.
Glancing back at the threshold of the building, he had caught sight of
the Professor, and, as if fascinated to the spot, he had watched him
take up the fatal hymn-book. Then, with an instant presentiment of the
consequences, he had rushed away. He has since joined the Parsees, and
the Democrat, visiting America on business, met him the other day in
New York, in the full costume of a Fire-worshipper. His complexion had
assumed a more Eastern appearance, and his turban was pulled low down,
and partially concealed his features; but the Democrat's keen eyes
detected a resemblance, even before the Parsee began to hum, in a
singularly rich and flexible tenor voice, a verse from Omar Khayyam:

'Ah Love, could you and I with Fate conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
_Would we not shatter it to bits_, and then
Remould it nearer to the Heart's Desire?'

From the depth of feeling which the Nihilist flung into these words,
the Democrat conjectured that he had at last found his true devotional
sphere, but he did not ventur