eve to borrow a volume of him; and then had grown proud of the
acquaintance, and bragged greatly of it to his friends, mixing up much
that was fanciful with a little that was true. But the result was that
gossip spread wide about Anthony, and he was held in the town to be a
very fearful person, who could do strange mischief if he had a mind
to; Anthony never cared to walk abroad, for he was of a shy habit, and
disliked to meet the eyes of his fellows; but if he did go about, men
began to look curiously after him as he went by, shook their heads and
talked together with a dark pleasure, while children fled before his
face and women feared him; all of which pleased Anthony mightily, if
the truth were told; for at the bottom of his restless and eager
spirit lay a deep vanity unseen, like a lake in woods; he hungered not
indeed for fame, but for repute--_monstrari digito_, as the poet has
it; and he cared little in what repute he was held, so long as men
thought him great and marvellous; and as he could not win renown by
brave deeds and words, he was rejoiced to win it by keeping up a
certain darkness and mystery about his ways and doings; and this was
very dear to him, so that when the silly priest called him Seer and
Wizard, he frowned and looked sideways; but he laughed in his heart
and was glad.

Now, when Anthony was near his fiftieth year, there fell on him a
heaviness of spirit which daily increased upon him. He began to
question of his end and what lay beyond. He had always made pretence
to mock at religion, and had grown to believe that in death the soul
was extinguished like a burnt-out flame. He began, too, to question of
his life and what he had done. He had made a few toys, he had filled
vacant hours, and he had gained an ugly kind of fame--and this was
all. Was he so certain, he began to think, after all, that death was
the end? Were there not, perhaps, in the vast house of God, rooms and
chambers beyond that in which he was set for awhile to pace to and
fro? About this time he began to read in a Bible that had lain dusty
and unopened on a shelf. It was his mother's book, and he found
therein many little tokens of her presence. Here was a verse
underlined; at some gracious passages the page was much fingered and
worn; in one place there were stains that looked like the mark of
tears; then again, in one page, there was a small tress of hair,
golden hair, tied in a paper with a name across it, that seemed to be