faith. I believe in what I see. I want what will give me pleasure."

"Well," said the old man, soothingly, as he plucked a leaf from the
laurel-tree above them and dipped it in the spring, "let us dismiss
the riddles of belief. I like them as little as you do. You know
this is a Castalian fountain. The Emperor Hadrian once read his
fortune here from a leaf dipped in the water. Let us see what this
leaf tells us. It is already turning yellow. How do you read that?"

"Wealth," said Hermas, laughing, as he looked at his mean garments.

"And here is a bud on the stem that seems to be swelling. What is
that?"

"Pleasure," answered Hermas, bitterly.

"And here is a tracing of wreaths upon the surface. What do you make
of that?"

"What you will," said Hermas, not even taking the trouble to look.
"Suppose we say success and fame?"

"Yes," said the stranger; "it is all written here. I promise that
you shall enjoy it all. But you do not need to believe in my
promise. I am not in the habit of requiring faith of those whom I
would serve. No such hard conditions for me! There is only one thing
that I ask. This is the season that you Christians call the
Christmas, and you have taken up the pagan custom of exchanging
gifts. Well, if I give to you, you must give to me. It is a small
thing, and really the thing you can best afford to part with: a
single word--the name of Him you profess to worship. Let me take
that word and all that belongs to it entirely out of your life, so
that you shall never need to hear it or speak it again. You will be
richer without it. I promise you everything, and this is all I ask
in return. Do you consent?"

"Yes, I consent," said Hermas, mocking. "If you can take your price,
a word, you can keep your promise, a dream."

The stranger laid the long, cool, wet leaf softly across the young
man's eyes. An icicle of pain darted through them; every nerve in
his body was drawn together there in a knot of agony.

Then all the tangle of pain seemed to be lifted out of him. A cool
languor of delight flowed back through every vein, and he sank into
a profound sleep.

III

PARTING, BUT NO FAREWELL

THERE is a slumber so deep that it annihilates time. It is like a
fragment of eternity. Beneath its enchantment of vacancy, a day
seems like a thousand years, and a thousand years might well pass as
one day.

It was such a sleep that fell upon Hermas in the Grove of Daphne. An
immeasurable period,