world parlour, its tall window, its strip of matting, conscious chiefly of the dreary hopelessness of this human brother of his who had eyes but did not see, ears and was deaf. He wished he would say good-bye, and go. There was no more to be done.
Father Francis, who had been sitting in a lax kind of huddle, seemed to know his thoughts, and sat up suddenly.
"You are tired of me," he said. "I will go."
"I am not tired of you, my dear father," said Percy simply. "I am only terribly sorry. You see I know that it is all true."
The other looked at him heavily.
"And I know that it is not," he said. "It is very beautiful; I wish I could believe it. I don't think I shall be ever happy again—but—but there it is."
Percy sighed. He had told him so often that the heart is as divine a gift as the mind, and that to neglect it in the search for God is to seek ruin, but this priest had scarcely seen the application to himself. He had answered with the old psychological arguments that the suggestions of education accounted for everything.
"I suppose you will cast me off," said the other.
"It is you who are leaving me," said Percy. "I cannot follow, if you mean that."
"But—but cannot we be friends?"
A sudden heat touched the elder priest's heart.
"Friends?" he said. "Is sentimentality all you mean by friendship? What kind of friends can we be?"
The other's face became suddenly heavy.
"I thought so."
"John!" cried Percy. "You see that, do you not? How
