dly, but was denied access to him; and I was terribly impressed
by the tragedy of a sane, normal, saintly man being crushed by the
brutal will of society. For the Bishop was sane, and pure, and noble. As
Ernest said, all that was the matter with him was that he had incorrect
notions of biology and sociology, and because of his incorrect notions
he had not gone about it in the right way to rectify matters.

What terrified me was the Bishop's helplessness. If he persisted in the
truth as he saw it, he was doomed to an insane ward. And he could do
nothing. His money, his position, his culture, could not save him. His
views were perilous to society, and society could not conceive that such
perilous views could be the product of a sane mind. Or, at least, it
seems to me that such was society's attitude.

But the Bishop, in spite of the gentleness and purity of his spirit, was
possessed of guile. He apprehended clearly his danger. He saw himself
caught in the web, and he tried to escape from it. Denied help from his
friends, such as father and Ernest and I could have given, he was
left to battle for himself alone. And in the enforced solitude of the
sanitarium he recovered. He became again sane. His eyes ceased to see
visions; his brain was purged of the fancy that it was the duty of
society to feed the Master's lambs.

As I say, he became well, quite well, and the newspapers and the church
people hailed his return with joy. I went once to his church. The sermon
was of the same order as the ones he had preached long before his eyes
had seen visions. I was disappointed, shocked. Had society then beaten
him into submission? Was he a coward? Had he been bulldozed into
recanting? Or had the strain been too great for him, and had he meekly
surrendered to the juggernaut of the established?

I called upon him in his beautiful home. He was woefully changed. He was
thinner, and there were lines on his face which I had never seen before.
He was manifestly distressed by my coming. He plucked nervously at his
sleeve as we talked; and his eyes were restless, fluttering here, there,
and everywhere, and refusing to meet mine. His mind seemed preoccupied,
and there were strange pauses in his conversation, abrupt changes of
topic, and an inconsecutiveness that was bewildering. Could this, then,
be the firm-poised, Christ-like man I had known, with pure, limpid eyes
and a gaze steady and unfaltering as his soul? He had been man-handled;
he