was a clear, brisk morning, with a white frost still on the pavements
where the sun had not fallen. The air was invigorating, and Maurice
began to feel its exhilaration. He walked more briskly, holding his
head more erect, even forgetting to be irritated by the swish of his
cassock about his legs. Without consciously determining whither he
would go, he followed the streets toward the house of Mr. Strathmore,
in that strange yet not uncommon state of mind in which a man knows
fully what he is doing, yet assures himself that he has no purpose.
When at last he found himself ringing the bell, Wynne carried his
private histrionics so far that he told himself that he was surprised
to be there.

The visitor was shown at once to the study of Mr. Strathmore, whose
readiness to receive those who sought him was one of the traits which
endeared him to the general public. Maurice felt the keen and inquiring
look which the clergyman bestowed upon him, and found himself somewhat
at a loss how to begin.

"I am from the Clergy House of St. Mark," he said, rather awkwardly.

"So I judged from your dress," Strathmore responded cordially. "Sit
down, please. That is a comfortable chair by the fire."

The professed ascetic smiled, but he took the chair indicated.

"It is a beautiful, brisk morning," the host went on. "The tingle in
the air makes a man feel that he can do impossible things."

Wynne looked up at him with a smile. He was won by the heartiness of
the tone, by the bright glance of the eye, by some intangible personal