as profoundly stirred. The heavens seemed to open and all the
earth to pass away. It was difficult to believe that he was still in the
flesh.

When he was able to collect himself he was on the tower again, but in his
cassock now and gripping the cord by which it was tied. The frosty air of
the morning had thickened to a fog, the fog-signals were sounding, and
the mighty monster below seemed to be puffing fire from a thousand
nostrils and bellowing from a thousand throats.

Some one had come up to him. It was Brother Paul. He was talking
nervously and even pretending to laugh a little.

"I am so happy to see you here. And I am glad the silence is at an end
and I am able to tell you so."

"Thank you," said John, and he tried to pass him.

"I always knew you would come to us--that is to say, after the night I
heard you at the hospital--the night of the Nurses' Ball, you remember,
and the Father's visit, you know. Still, I trust there was nothing
wrong--nothing at the hospital, I mean----"

John was fumbling for the door to the dormer.

"Everybody loved you too--the patients and the nurses and everybody! How
they will miss you there! I trust you left everybody well--and happy
and--eh?"

"Good-night," said John from the head of the stair.

There was silence for a moment, and then the brother said, in another
voice:

"Yes, I understand you. I know quite well what you mean. It is a fault to
speak of the outer world except on especial need. We have taken the vows,
too, and are pledged for life--I am, at all events. Still, if you could
have told me anything---- But I am much to blame. I must confess my
fault and do my penance."

John was diving down the stair and hurrying into his room.

"God help him!" he thought. "And me too! God help both of us! How am I to
live if I have to hide this secret? Yet how is he to live if he learns
it?"

He sat on the bed and tried to compose himself. Yes, Brother Paul was an
object for pity. In all the moral universe there was no spectacle more
pitiable than that of a man who had left the world while his heart was
still in it. What was he doing here? What had brought him? What business
had such a one in such a place? And then his pitiful helplessness for all
the uses of life and duty! Could it be right, could it be necessary,
could it be God's wish and will?

Here was a man whose sister was in the world. She was young and vain, and
the world was gay and seductive. Without a hand