s for a stroll to clear my brain. Good-night to
you. Come again some day."

"With pleasure. Good-night."

The Priest strode away, leaving Guildea standing on the step.

Father Murchison came many times again to number one hundred Hyde Park
Place. He had a feeling of liking for most men and women whom he knew,
and of tenderness for all, whether he knew them or not, but he grew to
have a special sentiment towards Guildea. Strangely enough, it was a
sentiment of pity. He pitied this hard-working, eminently successful man
of big brain and bold heart, who never seemed depressed, who never
wanted assistance, who never complained of the twisted skein of life or
faltered in his progress along its way. The Father pitied Guildea, in
fact, because Guildea wanted so little. He had told him so, for the
intercourse of the two men, from the beginning, had been singularly
frank.

One evening, when they were talking together, the Father happened to
speak of one of the oddities of life, the fact that those who do not
want things often get them, while those who seek them vehemently are
disappointed in their search.

"Then I ought to have affection poured upon me," said Guildea, smiling
rather grimly. "For I hate it."

"Perhaps some day you will."

"I hope not, most sincerely."

Father Murchison said nothing for a moment. He was drawing together the
ends of the broad band round his cassock. When he spoke he seemed to be
answering someone.

"Yes," he said slowly, "yes, that _is_ my feeling--pity."

"For whom?" said the Professor.

Then, suddenly, he understood. He did not say that he understood, but
Father Murchison felt, and saw, that it was quite unnecessary to answer
his friend's question. So Guildea, strangely enough, found himself
closely acquainted with a man--his opposite in all ways,--who pitied
him.

The fact that he did not mind this, and scarcely ever thought about it,
shows perhaps as clearly as anything could the peculiar indifference of
his nature.

II.

One Autumn evening, a year and a half after Father Murchison and the
Professor had first met, the Father called in Hyde Park Place and
enquired of the blond and stony butler--his name was Pitting--whether
his master was at home.

"Yes, sir," replied Pitting. "Will you please come this way?"

He moved noiselessly up the rather narrow stairs, followed by the
Father, tenderly opened the library door, and in his soft, cold voice,
announced:

"Father Murc