ng the various
odds and ends was a leather purse. He opened it with trembling fingers.
There was a sovereign, five one pound notes folded up, eight shillings
in silver, and a small silver cross hanging on a black silk riband. He
dropped the silver with a sigh of satisfaction into his trousers pocket,
and the notes he stored in the lining of his hat. He took up the little
cross and was about to thrust it into the thick grass, when he paused
for a moment, and was aware of an oppressive feeling.

On a sudden, in the midst of men and day,
And while he sat and looked around,
He seemed to be in a bygone age,
And feel himself the shadow of a dream.

O'Hagan felt that his body was decreasing, sinking under the green turf,
falling down, down, down, and yet "He" was still above, gazing,
wondering, open-eyed, open-mouthed, as it were. Gradually, but none the
less surely, he was being crowded round by many moving "?'s" which never
seemed to grow distinct. He seemed to know at once he was back in the
days long past. He shut his eyes against a burning that felt like tears.
When he opened them again he was looking at his own name, fairly carved
in on the silver cross in quaint old English letters:

Hilaire O'Hagan

The clump of bushes before him was now obscured by a thin white cloud.
As he watched he was aware of a figure that stood out distinctly before
him. He was a man of his own height, thick-set, serious-looking, in a
monk's mantle and hood. O'Hagan gave a hurried glance, and as hurriedly
turned his head away again. The face of the man exactly resembled his
own. But it was an honest face, without the look of dissipation, and the
secret furtive air, which he knew marred his own features. He also
thought he could see a faint nimbus round his head--but this may have
been illusion. O'Hagan moved away as if he had no wish to see him; but
the stranger was not to be put off by any such trick. He touched
O'Hagan's arm, and brought him to a standstill.

"Brother!" he said in a gentle voice.

O'Hagan pulled himself up sharply. For a moment it seemed as if he would
have refused to stay, but the next he realized that it would be of no
use.

"What do you want with me?" he began. "I know I'm a thief and a
drunkard. Do you want to hand me a Sunday School tract? If so get it
over."

The stranger's hand tightened on his arm, and he began to speak in a
calm but strangely thrilling voice. "It is written there: '_