was hastily rejected.

"No," said Holden; "it befitteth not. Stay, to take care of Faith.
Stay, to welcome me when I shall return with a crown of rejoicing upon
my head."

Armstrong shrunk within himself at the repulse. He would not have
regarded or hardly noticed it once, but, his mind had become morbidly
sensitive. A word, a look, a tone had now power to inflict a wound.
He was like the Sybarite whose repose was disturbed by a wrinkled
rose-leaf; with this difference, that they were spiritual, not
material hurts he felt. Did the forecast of Holden penetrate the
future? Did he, as in a vision, behold the spectres of misfortune that
dogged Armstrong's steps? Was he afraid of a companionship that
might drag him down and entangle him in the meshes of a predestined
wretchedness? He is right, thought Armstrong. He sees the whirlpool
into which, if once drawn, there is no escape from destruction.

Holden succeeded better in communicating a portion of his confidence
to Pownal. In the morning of life, before experience has dimmed our
sky with clouds, we readily perceive the sun of joy. The bright eyes
of youth catch his rays on the mountain tops, before the drooping lids
of age are raised from the ground. The ardent temperament of the
young man entered with delight into the hopes of his elder. He even
anticipated the request Holden intended to make, and asked permission
to accompany him. With a very natural feeling he endeavored to effect
some change in the costume of the Recluse, but here he met with
decided opposition.

"I have nothing to do with the world or its follies," said Holden.