that?"

"Pleasure," answered Hermas, bitterly.

"And here is a tracing of wreaths upon the surface. What do you make
of that?"

"What you will," said Hermas, not even taking the trouble to look.
"Suppose we say success and fame?"

"Yes," said the stranger; "it is all written here. I promise that
you shall enjoy it all. But you do not need to believe in my
promise. I am not in the habit of requiring faith of those whom I
would serve. No such hard conditions for me! There is only one thing
that I ask. This is the season that you Christians call the
Christmas, and you have taken up the pagan custom of exchanging
gifts. Well, if I give to you, you must give to me. It is a small
thing, and really the thing you can best afford to part with: a
single word--the name of Him you profess to worship. Let me take
that word and all that belongs to it entirely out of your life, so
that you shall never need to hear it or speak it again. You will be
richer without it. I promise you everything, and this is all I ask
in return. Do you consent?"

"Yes, I consent," said Hermas, mocking. "If you can take your price,
a word, you can keep your promise, a dream."

The stranger laid the long, cool, wet leaf softly across the young
man's eyes. An icicle of pain darted through them; every nerve in
his body was drawn together there in a knot of agony.