ed, so _blase_. Henry
was silent because of his inability to understand the mystery of pain--a
mystery to older heads than his.

"I have searched the world for a principle, for a law of life,"
exclaimed Mr. P., stopping suddenly and looking the journalist straight
in the face, "and I have never scented one."

"We are told to love one another," said Henry, almost timidly.

"Well, do you find that principle at work? I find hate, malice,
inhumanity, wherever I turn my eyes. That is what I meant by the
butcher's shop. I find ministers preaching the gospel of peace and
buttressing the policy of war and plunder. I find hypocrisy enthroned,
honesty contemned."

"But if one believes in the Word of God, is it not better to be the
honest man contemned than the throned hypocrite?"

"If we find every fact of life at cross-purpose with Scripture, what
then?"

"Perhaps you don't believe in the Bible?" Henry put it thus bluntly to
him.

"I prefer to say that it does not convince me. It tells, for example, of
a man who was guilty of a paltry fraud in attempting to cheat a small
number of his fellows; and upon whom, in the very act, sudden
destruction fell. He was struck down dead, we are told. Where to-day is
that Power which meted out such swift and deadly punishment? Here, in
this town, men lie and cheat with impunity, and on a scale which
involves hundreds of innocent victims. The Divine vengeance slumbers.
God--if there is a God--sleeps; or else looks on with supreme
indifference to the sufferings of His creatures."

"It is all a great mystery, I confess," returned Henry, with something
very like a sigh.

The anchor of faith, which had of late been dragging, seemed almost to
have slipped, and he felt himself drifting out into dark and troubled
waters. This was the young man who, less than an hour ago, was vowing to
trounce the author of "Ashes" for his gloomy view of life. The thought
had come to him that perhaps his very faith was a mere convention of
early teaching. He sat ill at ease before his visitor, whose passionate
outburst had left both without further speech. It was a strange
conclusion of an irresponsible gossip on the art of literature. After
looking for a minute or two at Henry's book-shelves, Mr. Puddephatt said
abruptly:

"I am indebted to you for a most enjoyable hour, Mr. Charles, and hope
we shall see more of each other in the future."

"I hope so too," answered Henry, at a loss for words, his brain