from theories about life to life itself. You pulled aside the veils from
the social shams. You were light in my darkness, but now I, too, see the
light. And I am very happy, only . . ." he hesitated painfully, and in
his eyes fear leaped large. "Only the persecution. I harm no one. Why
will they not let me alone? But it is not that. It is the nature of
the persecution. I shouldn't mind if they cut my flesh with stripes, or
burned me at the stake, or crucified me head--downward. But it is the
asylum that frightens me. Think of it! Of me--in an asylum for the
insane! It is revolting. I saw some of the cases at the sanitarium. They
were violent. My blood chills when I think of it. And to be imprisoned
for the rest of my life amid scenes of screaming madness! No! no! Not
that! Not that!"

It was pitiful. His hands shook, his whole body quivered and shrank away
from the picture he had conjured. But the next moment he was calm.

"Forgive me," he said simply. "It is my wretched nerves. And if the
Master's work leads there, so be it. Who am I to complain?"

I felt like crying aloud as I looked at him: "Great Bishop! O hero!
God's hero!"

As the evening wore on we learned more of his doings.

"I sold my house--my houses, rather," he said, "all my other possessions.
I knew I must do it secretly, else they would have taken everything away
from me. That would have been terrible. I often marvel these days at the
immense quantity of potatoes two or three hundred thousand dollars will
buy, or bread, or meat, or coal and kindling." He turned to Ernest. "You
are right, young man. Labor is dreadfully underpaid. I never did a