"Yes—the new man was once a friend of mine—Franklin, his name
is—Percy Franklin."
"Eh?"
"What is the matter, Mr. Brand? Did you know him?"
Oliver was eyeing him darkly, a little pale.
"Yes; I knew him," he said quietly. "At least, I think so."
"He was at Westminster until a month or two ago."
"Yes, yes," said Oliver, still looking at him. "And you knew him, Mr. Francis?"
"I knew him—yes."
"Ah!—well, I should like to have a talk some day about him."
He broke off. It yet wanted a minute to his time.
"And that is all?" he asked.
"That is all my actual business, sir," answered the other. "But I hope you will allow me to say how much we all appreciate what you have done, Mr. Brand. I do not think it is possible for any, except ourselves, to understand what the loss of worship means to us. It was very strange at first—"
His voice trembled a little, and he stopped. Oliver felt interested, and checked himself in his movement to rise.
"Yes, Mr. Francis?"
The melancholy brown eyes turned on him full.
"It was an illusion, of course, sir—we know that. But I, at any rate, dare to hope that it was not all wasted—all our aspirations and penitence and praise. We mistook our God, but none the less it reached Him—it found its way to the Spirit of the World. It taught us that the individual was nothing, and that He was all. And now——"
