r's
cold, twitching fingers in his firm, warm grasp.

"Hermas, life is passing--long, rich, prosperous; the last sands, I
cannot stay them. My religion, a good policy--Julian was my friend. But
now he is gone--where? My soul is empty--nothing beyond--very dark--I am
afraid. But you know something better. You found something that made
you willing to give up your life for it--it, must have been almost like
dying--yet you were happy. What was it you found? See, I am giving you
everything. I have forgiven you. Now forgive me. Tell me, what is it?
Your secret, your faith--give it to me before I go."

At the sound of this broken pleading a strange passion of pity and
love took the young man by the throat. His voice shook a little as he
answered eagerly:

"Father, there is nothing to forgive. I am your son; I will gladly
tell you all that I know. I will give you the secret. Father, you must
believe with all your heart, and soul, and strength in--"

Where was the word--the word that he had been used to utter night and
morning, the word that had meant to him more than he had ever known?
What had become of it?

He groped for it in the dark room of his mind. He had thought he could
lay his hand upon it in a moment, but it was gone. Some one had taken
it away. Everything else was most clear to him: the terror of death;
the lonely soul appealing from his father's eyes; the instant need of
comfort and help. But at the one point where he looked for help he could
find nothing; only an empty space. The word of hope had vanished. He
felt for it blindly and in desperate haste.

"Father, wait! I have forgotten something--it has slipped away from
me. I shall find it in a moment. There is hope--I will tell you
presently--oh, wait!"

The bony hand gripped his like a vice; the glazed eyes opened wider.
"Tell me," whispered the old man; "tell me quickly, for I must go."

The voice sank into a dull rattle. The fingers closed once more, and
relaxed. The light behind the eyes went out.

Hermas, the master of the House of the Golden Pillars, was keeping watch
by the dead.

IV

The break with the old life was as clean as if it had been cut with a
knife. Some faint image of a hermit's cell, a bare lodging in a back
street of Antioch, a class-room full of earnest students, remained in
Hermas' memory. Some dull echo of the voice of John the Presbyter, and
the measured sound of chanting, and the murmur of great congregations,
still li