saw that Harry was a new Harry altogether, and that he was radiantly
happy. His face was pale and thin, but his eyes were ablaze with
something mysterious and wonderful. "Don't ask me anything now," he
said; "wait till we are in my old den, and then I will tell you
everything." And by this time I was so comforted that I was content
to lie back and watch that dear, happy face of his.

I shall never forget the talk we had afterwards. "Mary," he said, in
his straight, direct way, "I've come back a better man. I have been
all my life a healthy, happy pagan. We were brought up, you and I,
on the theory of a healthy mind in a healthy body, and, of course,
it's a good theory so far as it goes. But it did for me what it does
for many a fellow. It made me forget my soul. Sport did a lot for me,
I know, but sport became my world. The life I lived there was
wholesome enough, but at the best what a poor, contracted, limited
thing is the body, and its joy. And what a big, splendid world I've
found the door to now."

"How did it come about, Harry?" I said, and the frost and the
bitterness and the anger against God were all gone out of my heart
and voice.

"Well, I don't quite know. That's the queer thing about it. I don't
deny I was a bit savage at first at what had happened. And I often
wished I were dead, for I saw my old self wasn't much good for this
new life I was up against. Then one Sunday the padre, who was a very
decent sort, gave us a straight talk that opened my eyes a bit. He
was speaking about Paul and the difference Christ made in his life.
Paul was a splendid fellow, and as good as good could be, and just
like many a man to-day who seems all right without Christ. But what