father's cold, twitching fingers in his firm, warm grasp.

"Hermas, life is passing--long, rich, prosperous; the last sands,
I--cannot stay them. My religion, a good policy--Julian was my
friend. But now he is gone--where? My soul is empty--nothing
beyond--very dark--I am afraid. But you know something better.
You found something that made you willing to give up your life for
it--it must have been almost like dying--yet you were happy.
What was it you found? See, I am giving you everything. I have
forgiven you. Now forgive me. Tell me, what is it? Your secret, your
faith--give it to me before I go."

At the sound of this broken pleading a strange passion of pity and
love took the young man by the throat. His voice shook a little as
he answered eagerly:

"Father, there is nothing to forgive. I am your son; I will gladly
tell, you all that I know. I will give you the secret of faith.
Father, you must believe with all your heart, and soul, and strength
in--"

Where was the word--the word that he had been used to utter night
and morning, the word that had meant to him more than he had ever
known? What had become of it?

He groped for it in the dark room of his mind. He had thought he
could lay his hand upon it in a moment, but it was gone. Some one
had taken it away. Everything else was most clear to him: the terror
of death; the lonely soul appealing from his father's eyes; the
instant need of comfort and help. But at the one point where he