ore up against what was harder yet to encounter than all
these. Charles Barclay's was one of those natures which, being
miserable, are apt to become desperate. To such men, affliction seems to
be torture, but no discipline. But our humanity perceives from a level,
and therefore a short-sighted point of view. We may well be thankful
that the Great Ruler sees above and around and on all sides the
creatures to be governed, the events to be disposed.

Charles Barclay went to London. One or two brief and most miserable
letters Everett received from him,--then _all_ a blank silence.
Everett's repeated appeals were unanswered, unnoticed. It might have
been as if Death had come between and separated these lovers and
friends, except that by indirect means they learned that he was alive
and still in London. At length came more definite tidings, and the
brother and sister knew that this Charles Barclay, whom they loved so
well, had plunged into a reckless life, as into a whirlpool of
destruction,--that he was among those associates, of high rank socially,
of nearly the lowest morally, whom he had formerly known at college.
Here was triumph for the prudent father,--desolation to the loving
woman,--and to Everett, what? Pain, keen pain, and bitter anxiety,--but
no quailing of the heart. He had too much faith in his friend for that.

He went after him to London,--he penetrated to him, and would not be
denied. He braved his assumed anger and forced violence; he had the
courage of twenty lions, this Visionary, in battling with the devils
that had entered into the spirit of his friend. The struggle was fierce
and lengthened. Love conquered at last, as it always does, could we so
believe. And during the time of utter depression into which the
mercurial nature then relapsed, Everett cheered and sustained him,--till
the young man's soul seemed melted within him, and the surrender to the
good influence was as absolute as the resistance had been passionate.

"What have I done, what am I," he would oftentimes say, "that I should
be saved and sustained and _loved_ by you, Everett?" For, truly, he
looked on him as no less than an angel, whom God had sent to succor him.
It was one of those problems the mystery of which is most sacred and
most sweet. In proportion as the erring man needed it, Everett's love
grew and deepened and widened, and his influence strengthened with it
almost unconsciously to himself. He was too humble to recognize all th