with mere
worldly affairs."

For a time he looked thoughtfully before him, and then he went on in his
soliloquy, "What was the story that old Serapion used to tell? In the
Thebaid there dwelt a penitent who thought he led a perfectly saintly
life and far transcended all his companions in stern virtue. Once he
dreamed that there was in Alexandria a man even more perfect than
himself; Phabis was his name, and he was a shoemaker, dwelling in the
White road near the harbor of Kibotos. The anchorite at once went to the
capital and found the shoemaker, and when he asked him, 'How do you serve
the Lord? How do you conduct your life?' Phabis looked at him in
astonishment. 'I? well, my Saviour! I work early and late, and provide
for my family, and pray morning and evening in few words for the whole
city.' Petrus, it seems to me, is such an one as Phabis; but many roads
lead to God, and we--and I--"

Again a cold shiver interrupted his meditation, and as morning approached
the cold was so keen that he endeavored to light a fire. While he was
painfully blowing the charcoal Hermas came up to him.

He had learned from Polykarp's escort where Paulus was to be found, and
as he stood opposite his friend he grasped his hand, stroked his rough
hair and thanked him with deep and tender emotion for the great sacrifice
he had made for him when he had taken upon himself the dishonoring
punishment of his fault.

Paulus declined all pity or thanks, and spoke to Hermas of his father and
of his future, until it was light, and the young man prepared to go down
to the oasis to pay the last honors to the dead. To his entreaty that he
would accompany him, Paulus only answered:

"No--no; not now, not now; for if I were to mix with men now I should fly
asunder like a rotten wineskin full of fermenting wine; a swarm of bees
is buzzing in my head, and an ant-hill is growing in my bosom. Go now and
leave me alone."

After the funeral ceremony Hermas took an affectionate leave of Agapitus,
Petrus, and Dorothea, and then returned to the Alexandrian, with whom he
went to the cave where he had so long lived with his dead father.

There Paulus delivered to him his father's letter to his uncle, and spoke
to him more lovingly than he had ever done before. At night they both lay
down on their beds, but neither of them found rest or sleep.

From time to time Paulus murmured in a low voice, but in tones of keen
anguish, "In vain--all in vain--" and again