trying to evolve some order of thought from the chaos into which the shock of his disappointment

him as the great missionary. He would go no more to the Pincio, for now they would point him out with that cynical amusement of the Romans as the man who had been shelved for his servant. He resented the fate that had uprooted him from Rome ten years before, sending him to Marqua. He resented the people he had converted, Pietro, the Consistory-everything. For

o close. The sound of the city brought back to him the words of the great prelate who had returned with him to San A

d come to the overflowing of speech. At first he saw only a hand at the door

, of those following days that gave him the unexpected, uncanny glimpses of the priest, he centered all his bitterness upon Denfili.

er, my son

may e

hed him with glowering rage. When Father Denfili t

an asked with a gentleness that Ramoni co

hing over the gates, beat down upon the old man, who sat wordless before its flood. It was a passionate story Ramoni told, a story of years in the novitiate when the old man had ever repressed him, a story of checks that had been put upon him as a pr

not pray,

n I pray? My life is ruined. I am ashamed

pel," the old man said. "God, and God al

nk I can thank Him for this? Yet I am a fool to ask you, for it was n

then it is right for you. As for me, perhaps I am some

'my son,'" cr

in the old voice. "Yet must I say it-my son. With even mo

tightly clasped in his hand. His poor, dull, pathetic eyes were turned to Ramoni who felt again that strange impression that he could see, as they fixed on his face and stared straight at him without a mov

Ramoni started to speak, but the other put out his hand. "I received you, a little boy, into this Community. No one knows you better than I do. I saw in you before any one else the gifts that God had given you for some great purpose. I saw them budding. I knew before any one else knew that some day you would do a great thing, though I did not know what i

m. "Your reward? I

e a channel in your soul that your great genius might not burst its bonds. I knew that there was conflict ever within you between your duty to God and what the world had to offer you-th

knew the city-well called the Eternal-where with all the evil the world has put within its walls the good still shines always. This, my son, is the city of the soul, and you

to you. I prayed only for the power of saving one. I had to send you away, for you w

Of that sacrifice the Church in Marqua was born. It will grow on another sacrifice. Ask you

ant to bring the splendor of the city to the world. My son, the work is not yours. The people are not yours. The city, the true city, does not know you, for you have forgotten th

orgotten to pray in the midst of affliction, teach your people how to pray in the midst of their sorrows? Marqua does not need you, for Marqua needs the man you might have been, but whi

man's words died away, there came the sound of footsteps paci

bear, while you have been raging that you were not permitted to bear it. Pietro was only your servant. He would be your servant again if he co

e hand reached over him, caught the lintel of the door and guided the blind man to the hall. Then Ramoni stood up. Without a wo

looked back on Marqua as a man who has traveled up the hills looks down on the valleys. And, looking back, he could see that Pietro's had been the labor that had won Marqua. There came back to him all the memories of his servant's love of souls, his ceaseless teaching, his long journeys to distant village

. He thought of the painting hanging near where he knelt-"Moses Striking the Rock." The features of Father Denfili merged into the featur

re be aught of living water within, let me give

tter no ot

nt, now servant and master, before