ietly,
definitely, like a lamp set in a dark place, and one felt that his glow
could not easily be extinguished. He walked tranquilly by the side of
Mr. Limer, and looked absolutely unselfconscious, quietly dignified and
simple.

When he went into the pulpit the lights were lowered and a pleasant
twilight prevailed. But the preacher's face was strongly illuminated.

Mr. Robertson preached on the sin of egoism, and took as the motto of
his sermon the words--"_Ego dormio et cor meum vigilat_." His method
of preaching was quiet, but intense; again the glow of the lamp. Often
there were passages which suggested a meditation--a soul communing with
itself fearlessly, with an unyielding, but never violent, determination
to arrive at the truth. And Rosamund, listening, felt as if nothing
could keep this man with the snow-white hair and the young face away
from the truth.

He ranged over a wide field--egoism being wide as the world--he exposed
many of the larger evils brought about by egoism, in connexion with the
Arts, with politics, with charity, with religious work in great cities,
with missionary enterprises abroad; he touched on some of the more
subtle forms of egoism, which may poison even the sources of love; and
finally he discussed the gains and the losses of egoism. "For," he said,
"let us be honest and acknowledge that we often gain, in the worldly
sense, by our sins, and sometimes lose by our virtues." Power of a kind
can be, and very often is, obtained by egoists through their egoism.
He discussed that power, showed its value and the glory of it. Then
he contrasted with it the power which is only obtained by those who,
completely unselfish, know not how to think of themselves. He enlarged
on this theme, on the Kingdom which can belong only to those who are
selfless. And then he drew to the end of his sermon.

"One of the best means I know," he said, "for getting rid of egoism is
this: whenever you have to take some big decision between two courses
of action--perhaps between two life courses--ask yourself, 'Which can I
share?'--which of these two paths is wide enough to admit of my treading
it with a companion, whose steps I can help, whose journey I can
enliven, whose weariness I can solace, and whose burden I can now and
then bear for a little while? And if only one of the paths is wide
enough, then choose that in preference to the other. I believe
profoundly in 'sharing terms.'"

He paused, gazing at the con