He shook his head.
"Yes, I know where He is, but I am under oath—"
She nodded quickly, and stood up.
"Yes. I should not have asked that. Well, we are content to wait."
There was silence for a moment or two. Oliver broke it.
"My dear, what do you mean when you say that He is not yet known?"
"I mean just that," she said. "The rest only know what He has done—not what He is; but that, too, will come in time."
"And meanwhile—"
"Meanwhile, you must work; the rest will come by and bye. Oh! Oliver, be strong and faithful."
She kissed him quickly, and went out.
Oliver sat on without moving, staring, as his habit was, out at the wide view beyond his windows. This time yesterday he was leaving Paris, knowing the fact indeed—for the delegates had arrived an hour before—but ignorant of the Man. Now he knew the Man as well—at least he had seen Him, heard Him, and stood enchanted under the glow of His personality. He could explain it to himself no more than could any one else—unless, perhaps, it were Mabel. The others had been as he had been: awed and overcome, yet at the same time kindled in the very depths of their souls. They had come out—Snowford, Cartwright, Pemberton, and the rest—on to the steps of Paul's House, following that strange figure. They had intended to say something, but they were dumb as they saw the sea of white faces, heard the groan and the silence, and experienced that compelling
