is _your_ name?"

"Henry Montagu," said his host simply.

He pondered it. "That has a nice sound. I like it. And I--I like you. So
don't ask me questions!"

The elder man was looking down at the thin white hands again, and the
_naive_ comment brought a sudden contraction to his throat. "Poor little
boy!" was on his lips, but an intuition like a woman's warned him that
the words would make the desolate figure weep again, and his utmost
strength quailed from the thought of seeing it, now that he had seen the
face. As the white hands clasped themselves together, he had seen that
the under sides of the wrists were bruised and dark. Facially, nothing
could have been more unlike than this youth to the paint and plaster
symbols that crowded before him from his memory, yet the red drops that
he had seen drip to the floor, the wickedness and waste that he seemed
to expiate and represent, the whole obvious torment of his being, had
forced a simile upon him which he now blurted out.

"Whoever and whatever you are, whatever terrible thing you've done, I
only know that you make me think of--of--Oh, the crown of thorns, the
cross--you know what I mean!"

"Some one with a crown of thorns?" said the young man wonderingly. "Who
was that?"

Mr. Montagu stared at him incredulously. That any man, no matter how
base a criminal, and one, indeed, who had cried out again and again the
name of God, should not know the story and the name of God's son,
astonished him, for the moment, more than anything yet had done.

"Oh, yes, yes, I remember now," continued the boy. "Yes, that was very,
very sad. But I'm selfish and preoccupied with my own dreadful trouble,
and that whole history, tragic as it was, was a very happy one compared
with mine!"

With a cold shudder, Henry Montagu believed him. He realized that as yet
he had done nothing for him. Food and drink had occurred to him, but in
the minutes that they had passed together the stranger had grown more
virile. He was no longer the incredible figure of wretchedness that had
dashed into the room. He was sitting forward in the chair now, his eyes
on the portrait.

"Is that your wife?" he asked.

"My--my dead wife," answered Mr. Montagu.

His own eyes reverting again and again to the lacerated wrists, he did
not see the changing expressions in his visitor's as they studied the
eyes of the portrait; but as the boy now leaped impulsively to his feet
he saw in them a fierce gleam that was