his words.

"My sister is no theologian," he answered briefly. "Women have no call
to meddle with such matters. But I was saying--it was in the middle of
these doubtings of mine that you came here to Octavius, and I noticed
you on the streets, and once in the evening--I made no secret of it to
my people--I sat in the back of your church and heard you preach. As I
say, I liked you. It was your face, and what I thought it showed of the
man underneath it, that helped settle my mind more than anything else. I
said to myself: 'Here is a young man, only about my own age, and he has
education and talents, and he does not seek to make money for himself,
or a great name, but he is content to live humbly on the salary of a
book-keeper, and devote all his time to prayer and the meditation of
his religion, and preaching, and visiting the sick and the poor, and
comforting them. His very face is a pleasure and a help for those in
suffering and trouble to look at. The very sight of it makes one believe
in pure thoughts and merciful deeds. I will not credit it that God
intends damning such a man as that, or any like him!'"

Theron bowed, with a slow, hesitating gravity of manner, and deep, not
wholly complacent, attention on his face. Evidently all this was by way
of preparation for something unpleasant.

"That was only last spring," said Michael. His tired voice sank for
a sentence or two into a meditative half-whisper. "And it was MY last
spring of all. I shall not be growing weak any more, or drawing hard
breaths, when the first warm weather comes. It will be one season to
me hereafter, always the same." He lifted his voice with perceptible
effort. "I am talking too much. The rest I can say in a word. Only half
a year has gone by, and you have another face on you entirely. I had