the abbey church he heard better news of God and His Kingdom:
to him rightly the gospel was every thing, and this church or that, save
for its sake, less than nothing and vanity. It had hurt Mr. Drake not a
little at first, but he found Drew in consequence only the more warmly
his personal friend, and since learning to know Wingfold, had heartily
justified his defection; and now that he was laid up, he missed
something any day that passed without a visit from the draper. One
evening Drew found him very poorly, though neither the doctor nor
Dorothy could prevail upon him to go to bed. He could not rest, but kept
walking about, his eye feverish, his pulse fluttering. He welcomed his
friend even more warmly than usual, and made him sit by the fire, while
he paced the room, turning and turning, like a caged animal that fain
would be king of infinite space.

"I am sorry to see you so uncomfortable," said Mr. Drew.

"On the contrary, I feel uncommonly well," replied the pastor. "I always
measure my health by my power of thinking; and to-night my thoughts are
like birds--or like bees rather, that keep flying in delight from one
lovely blossom to another. Only the fear keeps intruding that an hour
may be at hand, when my soul will be dark, and it will seem as if the
Lord had forsaken me."

"But does not _our daily bread_ mean our spiritual as well as our bodily
bread?" said the draper. "Is it not just as wrong in respect of the one
as of the other to distrust God for to-morrow when you have enough for
to-day? Is He a God of times and seasons, of this and that, or is He the
All in all?"

"You are right, old friend," said the minister, and ceasing his walk, he
sat down by the fire opposite him. "I am faithless still.--O Father in
Heaven, give us this day our daily bread.--I suspect, Drew, that I have
had as yet no more than the shadow of an idea how immediately I--we live
upon the Father.--I will tell you something. I had been thinking what it
would be if God were now to try me with heavenly poverty, as for a short
time he tried me with earthly poverty--that is, if he were to stint me
of life itself--not give me enough of Himself to live upon--enough to
make existence feel a good. The fancy grew to a fear, laid hold upon me,
and made me miserable. Suppose, for instance, I said to myself, I were
no more to have any larger visitation of thoughts and hopes and
aspirations than old Mrs. Bloxam, who sits from morning to night with