that had loved me. O mighty Love, who can tell to what heights of
perfection thou mayest yet rise in the bosom of the meanest who
followeth the Crucified!'"






CHAPTER XIII.

REMARKS.





Polwarth closed the manuscript, and for a time no one spoke.

"The man who wrote that book," said Wingfold, "could not have been
all out of his right mind."

"I must confess to you," returned Polwarth, "that I have chosen some
of the more striking passages--only some of them however. One thing
is pretty clear--that, granted the imagined conditions, within that
circle the writer is sane enough--as sane at least as the Wandering
Jew himself could well have been."

"Could you trust me with the manuscript, Mr. Polwarth?" said the
curate.