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 preacher, of his banishment from Rome, and now of
this crowning humiliation. Furiously Ramoni told of them all while the
old man sat, letting the torrent wear itself out on the rocks of
patience. Then, after Ramoni had been silent long moments, he spoke.

"You did not pray, my son?"

"Pray?" Ramoni's laughter rasped. "How can I pray? My life is ruined.
I am ashamed even to meet my brethren in the chapel."

"And yet, it is God one meets in the chapel," the old man said. "God,
and God alone; even if there be a thousand present."

"God?" flung back the missionary. "What has He done to me? Do you
think I can thank Him for this? Yet I am a fool to ask you, for it was
not God who did it--it was you! You interfered with His work. I know
it."

"I hope, my son, that it was God who did it. If He did, then it is
right for you. As for me, perhaps I am somewhat responsible. I was
consulted, and I advised Pietro."

"Don't call me 'my son,'" cried the other.

"Is it as bad as that with you?" There was only compassion in the old
voice. "Yet must I say it--my son. With even more reason than ever
before I must say it to you to-night."