Thomas Owen went to his room, but not to bed. Taking a Bible from the
table, he consulted reference after reference.

"The promise is clear," he said aloud presently, as he shut the
book; "clear and often repeated. There is no escape from it, and no
possibility of a double meaning. If it is not true, then it would seem
that nothing is true, and that every Christian in the world is tricked
and deluded. But if it _is_ true, why do we never hear of miracles?
The answer is easy: Because we have not faith enough to work them. The
Apostles worked miracles; for they had seen, therefore their faith was
perfect. Since their day nobody's faith has been quite perfect; at least
I think not. The physical part of our nature prevents it. Or perhaps the
miracles still happen, but they are spiritual miracles."

Then he sat down by the open window, and gazing at the dreamy beauty of
the summer night, he thought, for his soul was troubled. Once before
it had been troubled thus; that was nine years ago, for now he was but
little over thirty. Then a call had come to him, a voice had seemed to
speak to his ears bidding him to lay down great possessions to follow
whither Heaven should lead him. Thomas Owen had obeyed the voice;
though, owing to circumstances which need not be detailed, to do so he
was obliged to renounce his succession to a very large estate, and to
content himself with a younger son's portion of thirty thousand pounds
and the reversion to the living which he had now held for some five
years.

Then and there, with singular unanimity and despatch, his relations came
to the conclusion that he was mad. To this hour, indeed, those who stand
in his place and enjoy the wealth and position that were his by right,
speak of him as "poor Thomas," and mark their disapprobation of his