"You have not aged much, Walden!" he said, thoughtfully regarding his old college chum's clear and open countenance with a somewhat sad smile--"Your eyes are the same blue eyes of the boy that linked his arm through mine so long ago and walked with me through the sleepy old streets of 'Alma Mater!' That time seems quite close to me sometimes--and again sometimes far away--dismally, appallingly, far away!"

He sighed. Walden looked at him a little anxiously, but for the moment said nothing.

"You give me no response,"--continued Brent, with sudden querulousness--"Since you arrived we have been talking nothing but generalities and Church matters. Heavens, how sick I am of Church matters! Yet I know you see a change in me. I am sure you do--and you will not say it. Now you never were secretive--you never said one thing and meant another--so speak the truth as you have always done! I AM changed, am I not?"

"You are,"--replied Walden, steadily--"But I cannot tell how, or in what way. You look ill and worn out. You are overworked and overwrought--but I think there is something else at the root of the evil;--something that has happened during the last seven years. You are not quite the man you were when you came to consecrate my church at St. Rest."

"St. Rest!" repeated the Bishop, musingly--"What a sweet name it is- -what a still sweeter suggestion! Rest--rest!--and a saint's rest too!--that perfect rest granted to all the martyrs for Christ!--how safe and peaceful!--how sure and glorious! Would that such rest were mine! But I see nothing ahead of me but storm and turmoil, and stress of anguish and heartbreak, ending in--Nothingness!"