him a favourite at the court where
the old religion was in fashion. He had reaped a rich reward of his
policy, and a strange sense of consistency made him more fiercely loyal
to it than if it had been a real faith. He was proud of being called
"the friend of Julian"; and when his son joined himself to the
Christians, and acknowledged the unseen God, it seemed like an insult
to his father's success. He drove the boy from his door and disinherited
him.

The glittering portico of the serene, haughty house, the repose of the
well-ordered garden, still blooming with belated flowers, seemed at once
to deride and to invite the young outcast plodding along the dusty road.
"This is your birthright," whispered the clambering rose-trees by the
gate; and the closed portals of carven bronze said: "You have sold it
for a thought--a dream."'

II

Hermas found the Grove of Daphne quite deserted. There was no sound
in the enchanted vale but the rustling of the light winds chasing
each other through the laurel thickets, and the babble of innumerable
streams. Memories of the days and nights of delicate pleasure that
the grove had often seen still haunted the bewildered paths and broken
fountains. At the foot of a rocky eminence, crowned with the ruins of
Apollo's temple, which had been mysteriously destroyed by fire just
after Julian had restored and reconsecrated it, Hermas sat down beside a
gushing spring, and gave himself up to sadness.

"How beautiful the world would be, how joyful, how easy to live in,
without religion! These questions about unseen things, perhaps about
unreal things, these restraints and duties and sacrifices-if I were only
free from them all, and could only forget them all, then I could live my
life as I pleased, and be happy."

"Why not?" said a quiet voice at his back.

He turned, and saw an old man with a long beard and a threadbare cloak
(the garb affected by the pagan philosophers) standing behind him and
smiling curiously.

"How is it that you answer that which has not been spoken?" said Hermas;
"and who are you that honour me with your company?"

"Forgive the intrusion," answered the stranger; "it is not ill meant. A
friendly interest is as good as an introduction."

"But to what singular circumstance do I owe this interest?"

"To your face," said the old man, with a courteous inclination. "Perhaps
also a little to the fact that I am the oldest inhabitant here, and feel
as if all visitors w