This he did know--for he had long ago torn from his demon the draperies
of disguise--that women were his great temptation. Ordination had not
destroyed it, and even during those peaceful years at Bremerton he had
been forced to maintain a watchful guard. He had a power over women, and
they over him, that threatened to lead him constantly into wayside paths,
and often he wondered what those who listened to him from the pulpit
would think if they guessed that at times, he struggled with suggestion
even now. Yet, with his hatred of compromises, he had scorned marriage.

The yoke of Augustine! The caldron of unholy loves! Even now, as he sat
in the train, his mind took its own flight backward into that remoter
past that was still a part of him: to secret acts of his college days the
thought of which made him shudder; yes, and to riots and revels. In
youth, his had been one of those boiling, contagious spirits that carry
with them, irresistibly, tamer companions. He had been a leader in
intermittent raids into forbidden spheres; a leader also in certain more
decorous pursuits--if athletics may be so accounted; yet he had capable
of long periods of self-control, for a cause. Through it all a spark had
miraculously been kept alive. . . .

Popularity followed him from the small New England college to the Harvard
Law School. He had been soberer there, marked as a pleader, and at last
the day arrived when he was summoned by a great New York lawyer to
discuss his future. Sunday intervened. Obeying a wayward impulse, he
had gone to one of the metropolitan churches to hear a preacher renowned
for his influence over men. There is, indeed, much that is stirring to
the imagination in the spectacle of a mass of human beings thronging into
a great church, pouring up the aisles, crowding the galleries, joining
with full voices in the hymns. What drew them? He himself was singing