him. And of the whole
actual world that surrounded him he was very little conscious except
that he hated towns and longed always for air and space.

So that the windows were open one room was to him as another.

He had often, during his work with the members of his community, been
conscious of his ignorance of the impulses and powers that went up to
make the ordinary sensual physical life of the normal man. His own
troubles, trials, failures were so utterly of another kind that in this
other world his imagination refused to aid him. This had often deeply
distressed him and made him timid and shy in his dealings with men and
women. It was this, more than anything else, that held him back from
the ambition to proselytise. How could he go forth and challenge men's
souls when he could not understand nor feel their difficulties? More
and more as his years advanced had he retired into himself, into his
own mystical world of communion with a God who drew ever nearer and
nearer to him. He humbled himself before men; he did not believe
himself better than they because he had not yielded to their
temptations; but he could not help them; his tongue was tied; he was a
man cut off from his fellows and he knew it.

He had never felt so impatient of his impotence as he did to-night. For
ten years he had been waiting for this interview with his son, and now
that it was come he was timid and afraid as though he had been opposed
by a stranger. He had always known that Martin would return. It had
been his one worldly ambition and prayer to have him at his side again.
When he had thought and dreamt of the time that was coming, he had
thought that it would be simple enough to win the boy back to the old
allegiance and faith to which he had once been bound. Meanwhile the boy
had grown into a man; here was a new Martin deep in experiences,
desires, ambitions of which his father could have no perception. Even
in the moment that he was aware of the possibility of losing his son he
was aware also of the deep almost fanatical resolve to keep him, to
hold him at all costs.

This was to be the test of his whole earthly life. He seemed, as he sat
there, looking across at his boy, to challenge God Himself to take him
from him. It was as though he said:

"This reward at least I have a right to ask. I demand it ..."

Martin, on his side, was conscious of a profound discomfort. He had,
increasingly as the years had passed, wished to take life eas