stended, and even the white of the
eye tinged with that delicate blue that denotes perfect health in the
organ; but in one moment the truth flashes upon you--that poor patient
is stone-blind. Now, where's the disease?"

"The optic nerve is destroyed," he answered promptly.

"Precisely. And now, if you were to pour in through the dark canal of
the pupil the strongest sunlight, or even the flash of your electric
searchlight, would it make any difference, do you think?"

"None," he said, "so far as sight was concerned; but it might possibly
paralyze the brain."

"Precisely. And if you, my dear young friend, were pouring, till the
crack of doom, every kind of human light--philosophical, dogmatic,
controversial--upon the retina of the soul without the optic nerve of
faith, you will be blind, and go blind to your grave."

Somehow this appeared to be a relief, though it looked like
discouragement.

"It is something to know," he said, "that the fault is not altogether my
own. But," after a pause, "this demands a miracle."

"Quite so. A pure light from God. And that is the reason that my
excellent curate is storming the citadels of heaven for you by that
terrible artillery--the prayers of little children. And if you want to
capture this grace of God by one tremendous _coup_, search out the most
stricken and afflicted of my flock (Bittra has a pretty good catalogue
of them), and get him or her to pray for you, and very soon the sense
of faith will awaken within you, and you will wonder that you were ever
blind."

"Ten thousand thanks," he said, rising; "I had no anticipations of so
pleasant and instructive an evening."

"You were told to expect to meet a funny old fellow," I said, "with as
many quips, and cranks, and jests, as old Jack Falstaff?"

"Well," he said, pulling his mustache nervously, "I should not like to
put it so brusquely."

"Of course not. But there lies a big mistake, my dear boy. Democritus
was as much a philosopher as Heraclitus, and he lived fifty years
longer. There is a good deal of philosophy behind a laugh, and we put
our gargoyles on the outside of our churches."

"Indeed, I must say, from a long experience," he replied, "and a
grateful experience, that your men are the most cheerful class I have
met,--if I except our own sailors,--although the comparison sounds
grotesque. And," he said hesitatingly, "that just reminds me; if I may
take the freedom of showing my gratitude in a small way, pe