e near such a place at such a time,
nor could he think of any one else who was likely to be there. Besides,
although he could not see the stranger distinctly, he himself was
standing in full moonlight, and yet the man in the shadow of the cross
made no sign of seeing him. At that moment he would gladly have gone
home without asking further question, but that would have looked as if
he were afraid.

He tried a chance remark. 'It is a fine night,' he said, as lightly as
might be.

'Yes,' said the other, and moved his arms from the arms of the cross. It
was only one word, but the curate recognised the soft voice at once. It
was the Jewish rabbi.

'I was at one of your services the other day,' he said, advancing
nearer.

'Yes.'

'I felt sorry your people did not turn out better.'

There was no answer.

'It is a very cold wind,' said the curate. 'I hardly know why I came out
so far.'

'Shall I tell you?' asked the Jew softly. He spoke good English, but
very slowly, and with some foreign accent.

'Certainly, if you can.'

'I desired very much to see you.'

'But you did not tell me, so that could not be the reason. Your will
could not influence my mind. I assure you I came of my own free will; it
would be terrible if one man should be at the mercy of another's
caprice.'

'Be it so; let us call it chance then. I desired that you should come,
and you came.'

'But you do not think that you have a power over other men like that?'

'I do not know; I find that with some men such correspondence between
my will and their thoughts and actions is not rare; but I could not
prove that it is not chance. It makes no difference to me whether it be
chance or not. I have been thinking of you very much, desiring your aid,
and twice you have come to me--as you say--of your own free will.'

'If you have such a power, you may be responsible for a very
disagreeable dream I had in your synagogue the other day.'

'What was the dream?'

'Nay, if you created it you should be able to tell me what it was.'

'I have no idea what it was; if I influenced your imagination I did so
unconsciously.'

There was about this Jew such a complete gentleness and repose, such
earnestness without eagerness, such self-confidence without
self-assertion, that the curate's heart warmed to him instinctively.

'I believe you are an honest Christian,' said the Jew very simply.

'I hope honest Christians are not rare.'

'I think a wholly honest ma