nd, the delight
increased, and the wonder mingled with it. It was little short of the
marvellous to the rector of Saint-Luke-the-Good-Physician's that the
raw, eager-minded youngster he had known as clerklet in a mountain inn
could have developed into this personable man, a good talker, a good
critic of this world's valuations, and, withal, not a little magnetic
in his personal charm. At the first glance and the second, Whittenden
rejoiced at what he saw. At the third, he doubted. The eyes were
lambent still, but far less happy; the lips were more sensitive, albeit
firmer, and every now and then there came a tired droop about their
corners, as if life, even to the prosperous and popular rector of Saint
Peter's, were just a degree less full of promise than he had fancied it
would be. The raw young stripling had hoped all things; the mature,
seemingly well-poised rector was having some little difficulty to prove
them good.

What was the matter, Whittenden asked himself. The ineradicable germs
of pessimistic Calvinism? The uncongenial wife? Some lurking weakness
in the man himself, that forbade his ever coming to a full content?
Some residuum of jealous self-distrust, left over from his primitive
beginnings, and causing him to look on every prosperous man as on a
potential foe? The alternatives were too many and too complex to be
settled by a two-hour study of the man beside him. Therefore
Whittenden, being Whittenden, ended by putting the direct question.

"In the final analysis, Brenton, what are you making out of your life?"

The answer astounded him by its terse abruptness.

"Chaos," Brenton said.

Whittenden's mouth settled to the outlines of a whistle, albeit no
sound came out of it.

"_Chaos_ is a good, strong word, Brenton," he said, after a minute.
"Exactly what is it that you mean?"

Brenton stated his meaning, without mincing matters in the least.

"I mean that I have no more business to be preaching in Saint Peter's
than I would have to be holding forth upon the eternal fires of the
most azure Calvinism."

"But you made your choice deliberately."

Brenton turned on him with some impatience.

"What if I did? What is the choice of a boy of twenty, anyway? Of a
cocksure, ambitious boy just breaking out of leading strings? I did
choose--and yet, not so freely as I seemed to do. There was my mother
in the background."

"Of course," Whittenden assented quietly. "Who else, better?"

"No one. Only--" T