except in its details; he would finish his
course at the school, receive a church, and pursue with moderate
success his task of holding a parish up to certain ideals. The death
of the uncle who was paying his way, following his bankruptcy, brought
Wilson to a halt from even this slow pace. At first he had been
stunned by this sudden order of Fate. His house-bleached fellows had
gathered around in the small, whitewashed room where he had had so
many tough struggles with Greek roots and his Hebrew grammar. They
offered him sympathy and such slight aid as was theirs. Minor
scholarships and certain drudging jobs had been open to him,--the
opportunity to shoulder his way to the goal of what he had thought his
manifest destiny. But that night after they had gone he locked the
door, threw wide his window, and wandered among the stars. There was
something in the unpathed purple between the spear points which called
to him. He breathed a fresher air and thrilled to keener dreams.
Strange faces came to him, smiling at him, speaking dumbly to him,
stirring unknown depths within him. He was left breathless, straining
towards them.

The day after the school term closed he had packed his extension
valise, bade good-bye to his pitying classmates, and taken the train
to Boston. He had only an indefinite object in his mind: he had once
met a friend of his uncle's who was in the publishing business; and he
determined to seek him on the chance of securing through him work of
some sort. He learned that the man had sold out and moved to the West.
Then followed a week of hopeless search for work until his small hoard
had dwindled away to nothing. To-day he found himself without a cent.

He had answered the last advertisement just as the thousand windows
sprang to renewed life. It was a position as shipping clerk in a large
department store. After waiting an hour to see the manager, a
double-chinned ghoul with the eyes of a pig, he had been dismissed
with a glance.

"Thank you," said Wilson.

"For what?" growled the man.

"For closing this door," answered Wilson, with a smile.

The fellow shifted the cigar stub which he gripped with yellow teeth
between loose lips.

"What you mean?"

"Oh, you wouldn't understand--not in a thousand years. Good-day."

The store was dry and warm. He had wandered about it gazing at the
pretty colored garments, entranced by the life and movement about him,
until the big iron gates were closed. Then he