t his small,
thin-lipped mouth were almost cruel. His voice was harsh and dry,
sometimes, when he grew energetic, almost soprano. It fired off words
with a sharp and clipping utterance. His habitual manner was one of
distrust and investigation. It was impossible to suppose that, in his
busy life, he found any time for love, either of humanity in general or
of an individual.

Yet his days were spent in scientific investigations which conferred
immense benefits upon the world.

Both men were celibates. Father Murchison was a member of an Anglican
order which forbade him to marry. Professor Guildea had a poor opinion
of most things, but especially of women. He had formerly held a post as
lecturer at Birmingham. But when his fame as a discoverer grew he
removed to London. There, at a lecture he gave in the East End, he first
met Father Murchison. They spoke a few words. Perhaps the bright
intelligence of the priest appealed to the man of science, who was
inclined, as a rule, to regard the clergy with some contempt. Perhaps
the transparent sincerity of this devotee, full of common sense,
attracted him. As he was leaving the hall he abruptly asked the Father
to call on him at his house in Hyde Park Place. And the Father, who
seldom went into the West End, except to preach, accepted the
invitation.

"When will you come?" said Guildea.

He was folding up the blue paper on which his notes were written in a
tiny, clear hand. The leaves rustled drily in accompaniment to his
sharp, dry voice.

"On Sunday week I am preaching in the evening at St. Saviour's, not far
off," said the Father.

"I don't go to church."

"No," said the Father, without any accent of surprise or condemnation.

"Come to supper afterwards?"

"Thank you. I will."

"What time will you come?"

The Father smiled.

"As soon as I have finished my sermon. The service is at six-thirty."

"About eight then, I suppose. Don't make the sermon too long. My number
in Hyde Park Place is a hundred. Good-night to you."

He snapped an elastic band round his papers and strode off without
shaking hands.

On the appointed Sunday, Father Murchison preached to a densely crowded
congregation at St. Saviour's. The subject of his sermon was sympathy,
and the comparative uselessness of man in the world unless he can learn
to love his neighbour as himself. The sermon was rather long, and when
the preacher, in his flowing, black cloak, and his hard, round hat, with
a