"I pray that it may be so. But you must not leave the ministry of the Church, Farrar. We need such men as you. You are still young, but you have learned wisdom by sad and bitter experience. You were never better prepared to preach Christ's religion than you are now. And some day you will come into your own."
The rector turned his eyes to the window and looked out across the lawn to the Gothic pinnacles of the church on which the glory of the setting sun still lay. It was apparent that he was in deep thought, and for a moment he did not reply. Then he looked back at the prelate.
"Bishop," he said, "I think it is your faith in me that has saved me. For days I have seen nothing before me but the blackness of the pit. I come here, and you, whom I have perhaps wronged most deeply, are most ready to forgive me and help me. In my own city I have yielded because I have been bludgeoned into it; but you, by your magnanimity—you bring me—to my knees—in true repentance."
He laid his arms on the table and bowed his head on his arms. There was no longer any doubt that he was not only broken, but also repentant.
The bishop rose from his chair, crossed over to the penitent priest and laid his arm once more affectionately about his shoulders.
"Farrar," he said, "God bless you! I love you."
Underneath his hand he felt the broad shoulders tremble. He went on comfortingly:
"This is not the end; it is but the beginning. You are going to start a new career. I have already for you, in my mind, an outpost of the Church, in another diocese, where I believe your great talent and your love for neglected men will lead to the establishment of a mighty stronghold of our religion."
The rector sprang to his feet and dashed the tears from his eyes.
"You bring me a message," he said, "straight from
