He rose from the chair and paced the room with leaden feet.
For the first time in his life his age was visibly upon him.
His head was heavy and hot, and the thoughts that rolled in it
were confused and depressing. Could it be that he had made a
mistake
in the principles of his existence? There was no argument in
what Harold had said--it was almost childish--and yet
it had shaken the elder man more deeply than he cared to show.
It held a silent attack which touched him more than open
criticism.

Suppose the end of his life were nearer than he thought--the end
must come some time--what if it were now? Had he not
founded his house upon a rock? Had he not kept the Commandments?

Was he not, "touching the law, blameless"? And beyond this,
even if there were some faults in his character--and all men are
sinners--
yet he surely believed in the saving doctrines of religion--the
forgiveness
of sins, the resurrection of the body, the life everlasting.
Yes, that was the true source of comfort, after all. He would
read a bit
in the Bible, as he did every night, and go to bed and to sleep.

He went back to his chair at the library table. A strange weight
of
weariness rested upon him, but he opened the book at a familiar
place,