d to be in no haste and to approach the thing
lightly on the morrow--in the fond hope that a mere breath of authority
might blow it away.

And when, the next morning, they both drifted to the study, the old man
called up the smile that made his wrinkles sunny, and said in light tones,
above the beating of an anxious heart:

"So it's your theory, boy, that we must all be taken down with typhoid
before we can be really wise in matters of faith?"

But the youth answered, quite earnestly:

"Yes, sir; I really believe nothing less than that would clear most
minds--especially old ones. You see, the brain is a muscle and thought is
its physical exercise. It learns certain thoughts--to go through certain
exercises. These become a habit, and in time the muscle becomes stiff and
incapable of learning any new movements--also incapable of leaving off
the old. The religion of an old person is merely so much reflex nervous
action. It is beyond the reach of reason. The individual's mind can
affect it as little as it can teach the other muscles of his body new
suppleness."

He spoke with a certain restrained nervousness that was not reassuring.
But the old man would not yet be rebuffed from his manner of lightness.

"Then, wanting an epidemic of typhoid, we of the older generation must die
in error."

"Yes, sir--I doubt even the efficacy of typhoid in most cases; it's as
difficult for an old person to change a habit of thought as to take the
wrinkles from his face. That is why what we very grandly call 'fighting
for the truth' or 'fighting for the Lord' is merely fighting for our own
little notions; they have become so vital to us and we call them 'truth.'"

The youth stopped, with a palpable air of defiance, before which the old
man's assumption of ease and lightness was at last beaten down. He had
been standing erect by the table, still with the smile toning his
haggardness. Now the smile died; the whole man sickened, lost life
visibly, as if a dozen years of normal aging were condensed into the dozen
seconds.

He let himself go into the big chair, almost as if falling, his head
bowed, his eyes dulled to a look of absence, his arms falling weakly over
the chair's sides. A sigh that was almost a groan seemed to tell of pain
both in body and mind.

Bernal stood awkwardly regarding him, then his face lighted with a sudden
pity.

"But I thought _you_ could understand, sir; I thought you were different;
you have been like a