ingenuity to tempt and increase his appetite, but nothing served to help
him, and what made matters worse, he seemed to have no desire to improve.
True, he was just as exact and faithful in the discharge of his official
duties, and in the correspondence, which was without dictation, there was
quite as much courtesy, but it all lacked that freshness that had marked
the past. The organ gave forth notes just as harmonious and perfect, but
the music lacked the brilliancy and uplifting power that had hitherto
characterized it. Indeed, his youthfulness seemed to have departed, and
maturity, if not old age, taken its place. Previously Carl's full and
joyous laugh had attracted scores toward him; now, however, a quiet smile
was frequently the only indication that he was pleased, and even a
sprinkling of gray hair was here and there seen among the curly brown
locks. Once it had been a trick of his to leap from the ground to the
back of Allick, Sparrow's tallest horse, but he now declined mounting a
horse at all. The strong and springy step was gone and his feet shuffled
like those of a very old man.

One day the bishop entered the office where Carl was at work, accompanied
by a plain-looking man, possibly forty years of age. He was of medium
stature, with broad and prominent brow, great brown eyes, and prominent
nose. But the most significant and impressive feature of the man's face
was his eyes--large, brown, and possessed of that peculiar quality which
made them grow luminous when he was much interested and almost frightful
when excited. He was introduced to Carl as Mr. Marmion, from New York. As
Carl had no particular interest in the New York gentleman, after a few
words of commonplaces he turned away and resumed his work; but the bishop
having slipped out, the stranger seemed to call for the courtesy of the
secretary.

"Take that easy chair, Mr. Marmion," said Carl. "Bishop Albertson will no