apostle of truth, with shining
brows and the fearlessness of one of Gods own angels, battling for the
truth and the right, and battling for the succor of the poor and lonely
and oppressed. And then there arose before me another figure, the
Christ! He, too, had taken the part of the lowly and oppressed,
and against all the established power of priest and pharisee. And I
remembered his end upon the cross, and my heart contracted with a pang
as I thought of Ernest. Was he, too, destined for a cross?--he, with his
clarion call and war-noted voice, and all the fine man's vigor of him!

And in that moment I knew that I loved him, and that I was melting
with desire to comfort him. I thought of his life. A sordid, harsh, and
meagre life it must have been. And I thought of his father, who had lied
and stolen for him and been worked to death. And he himself had gone
into the mills when he was ten! All my heart seemed bursting with desire
to fold my arms around him, and to rest his head on my breast--his head
that must be weary with so many thoughts; and to give him rest--just
rest--and easement and forgetfulness for a tender space.

I met Colonel Ingram at a church reception. Him I knew well and had
known well for many years. I trapped him behind large palms and rubber
plants, though he did not know he was trapped. He met me with the
conventional gayety and gallantry. He was ever a graceful man,
diplomatic, tactful, and considerate. And as for appearance, he was
the most distinguished-looking man in our society. Beside him even the
venerable head of the university looked tawdry and small.

And yet I found Colonel Ingram situated the same as the unlettered
mechanics. He was not a free agent. He, too, was bound upon the wheel.
I shall never forget the change in him when I mentioned Jackson's case.
His smiling good nature vanished like a ghost. A sudden, frightful
expression distorted his well-bred face. I felt the same alarm that I
had felt when James Smith broke out. But Colonel Ingram did not curse.
That was the slight difference that was left between the workingman and
him. He was famed as a wit, but he had no wit now. And, unconsciously,
this way and that he glanced for avenues of escape. But he was trapped
amid the palms and rubber trees.

Oh, he was sick of the sound of Jackson's name. Why had I brought the
matter up? He did not relish my joke. It was poor taste on my part,
and very inconsiderate. Did I not know that in h