want of their hourly life, and the wine-press he trod alone.

Yet, is there no meaning in this perpetually covered truth? If
the son of the carpenter had stood in the church that night, as
he stood with the fishermen and harlots by the sea of Galilee,
before His Father and their Father, despised and rejected of
men, without a place to lay His head, wounded for their
iniquities, bruised for their transgressions, would not that
hungry mill-boy at least, in the back seat, have "known the
man"? That Jesus did not stand there.

Wolfe rose at last, and turned from the church down the street.
He looked up; the night had come on foggy, damp; the golden
mists had vanished, and the sky lay dull and ash-colored. He
wandered again aimlessly down the street, idly wondering what
had become of the cloud-sea of crimson and scarlet. The trial-
day of this man's life was over, and he had lost the victory.
What followed was mere drifting circumstance,--a quicker walking
over the path,--that was all. Do you want to hear the end of
it? You wish me to make a tragic story out of it? Why, in the
police-reports of the morning paper you can find a dozen such
tragedies: hints of shipwrecks unlike any that ever befell on
the high seas; hints that here a power was lost to heaven,--that
there a soul went down where no tide can ebb or flow.
Commonplace enough the hints are,--jocose sometimes, done up in
rhyme.

Doctor May a month after the night I have told you of, was
reading to his wife at breakfast from this fourth column of the
morning-paper: an unusual thing,--these police-reports not