amiss to say those words I did from the chancel
to-day," said the pastor to his wife when at home and they were alone
together. "They are not in the service, but I could not help it. I never
felt so deeply before how freely and fully God forgives us--_us_
Christians as well as what we call 'poor sinners.' Yes, it came over me
as it never has before, and somehow heaven seems nearer, and God more
really my Father and Christ my Saviour. Do you understand me, my dear?"

"Yes, yes," she said--"yes, dear; and you too seem nearer to me than
ever before."

The pastor answered, tenderly and solemnly: "It is you, wife, you and
Elsa, and that poor Johanson, who have somehow opened my eyes. I have
seen before, but seen darkly. May God lead me to the perfect day!"

CHAPTER VI.

PAINFUL DISCLOSURES.

Something about the strange inmate had affected the mad poet, long a
dweller in the poorhouse, as unusual in that establishment. These
fancies he had versified, and having written the result down on a
half-sheet of paper, he folded it into a narrow strip, and then twisted
it into an almost impossible knot, and handed it to the person nearest
concerned.

Johanson read with astonishment:--

"It striketh me
That you should be
A gentleman,
And drive a span,
Live high, drink wine,
Ask folks to dine,
And make a dash.
With poorhouse trash
You should not be--
With folks like me."

In return, the reply was promptly put under the poor poet's door:--

"Of who I am, or where belong,
Please do not whisper in your song."

These communications were followed by a few days of unusual silence
between the neighbours. The mad poet did not like being answered in
rhyme. Of versification he considered himself the inventor, and as
having therefore an exclusive right to use it, in conversation or on
paper.

At last Johanson made up his mind what course to pursue in the matter.
He went to the poet in a friendly way, and said to him, "I take you to
be a gentleman who knows how to keep a secret, and does not mention what
he can guess out concerning other people's matters. I know your
principles about your post-bag. I have heard that you never even read
the address of a letter to be sent off, or the post-mark of one to be
delivered. Now I call that a high sense of honour."

"Just decency
It seems to me,"

broke in the poet.

Johanson did not seem to notice the interruption, bu