r rolled down the Rabbi's cheek, and he looked fondly at the lad.

"Your words pierce me as sharp swords, John; spare me, for I can do
none otherwise; all night I wrestled for release, but in vain."

Carmichael had a sudden revulsion of feeling, such as befalls emotional
and ill-disciplined natures when they are disappointed and mortified.

"Very good, Doctor Saunderson"--Carmichael rose awkwardly and stood on
the hearthrug again, an elbow on the mantelpiece--"you must do as you
please and as you think right. I am sorry that I . . . pressed you so
far, but it was on grounds of our . . . friendship.

"Perhaps you will tell me as soon as you can what you propose to do,
and when you will bring . . . this matter before the Presbytery. My
sermon was fully written and . . . is at your disposal."

While this cold rain beat on the Rabbi's head he moved not, but at its
close he looked at Carmichael with the appeal of a dumb animal in his
eyes.

"The first meeting of Presbytery is on Monday, but you would no doubt
consider that too soon; is there anything about dates in the order of
procedure for heresy?" and Carmichael made as though he would go over
to the shelves for a law book.

"John," cried the Rabbi--his voice full of tears--rising and following
the foolish lad, "is this all you have in your heart to say unto me?
Surely, as I stand before you, it is not my desire to do such a thing,
for I would rather cut off my right hand.

"God hath not been pleased to give me many friends, and He only knows
how you and the others have comforted my heart. I lie not, John, but
speak the truth, that there is nothing unto life itself I would not
give for your good, who have been as the apple of my eye unto me."

Carmichael hardened himself, torn between a savage sense of
satisfaction that the Rabbi was suffering for his foolishness and the
inclination of his better self to respond to the old man's love.

"If there be a breach between us, it will not be for you as it must be
for me. You have many friends, and may God add unto them good men and
faithful, but I shall lose my one earthly joy and consolation, when
your feet are no longer heard on my threshold and your face no longer
brings light to my room. And, John, even this thing which I am
constrained to do is yet of love, as . . . you shall confess one day."

Carmichael's pride alone resisted, and it was melting fast. Had he
even looked at the dear face, he must have given