'll promise anything, only let me see my Carl."

But Enoch's patience was tried at the very start. Tom tiptoed into the
room, and as he saw the pale smiling face of Carl and heard his welcome
he threw his arms around the sick man's neck, and sobbed through his
tears: "Carl, my Carl, you're nearly well, aren't you?"

Enoch, standing near the bed, placed his finger upon his lips, but Tom
did not recognize his admonition, and kept on giving expression to his
happiness. "Carl," said he, "God has given you back to us. I told mother
that he would, and he has."

The pleasure of Bishop McLaren's visit was plainly lessened by the
illness of the young secretary. The family of his host were all anxious,
and the members of the faculty were visibly affected. Even the servants
about the place felt concern for the young secretary and whispered many
exaggerated stories concerning the case. But the crisis had been passed,
and Carl began to improve. After a slow recovery he took up his
accustomed duties, and church and school work fell back into its old
routine. But six weeks of typhoid fever had greatly emaciated the young
secretary. The buoyancy and brightness seemed to have left him. He had
been fond of athletic sports, but now he apparently cared nothing for
them. With Tom he would walk over to the exercise grounds and, seated in
a chair, would watch the students in their games, seldom speaking and
never elated.

The kindly bishop watched the young man closely and, after much serious
thought, wrote to his personal friend, Dr. Marmion, of New York, inviting
him to the Monastery to take a day or two of rest. Nancy exhausted her
ingenuity to tempt and increase his appetite, but nothing served to help
him, and what made matters worse, he seemed to have no desire to improve.
True, he was just as exact and faithful in the discharge of his official
duties, and in the correspondence, which was without dictation, there was
quite as much courtesy, but it all lacked that freshness that had marked
the past. The organ gave forth notes just as harmonious and perfect, but
the music lacked the brilliancy and uplifting power that had hitherto
characterized it. Indeed, his youthfulness seemed to have departed, and
maturity, if not old age, taken its place. Previously Carl's full and
joyous laugh had attracted scores toward him; now, however, a quiet smile
was frequently the only indication that he was pleased, and even a
sprinkling of gray hair was