and stronger, bearing argosies of costly rhetoric
and treasures of homely speech in their bosom, and drawing the hearts
of men with a resistless magic, Hermas knew that the preacher had never
been more potent, more inspired.

He played on that immense congregation as a master on an instrument.
He rebuked their sins, and they trembled. He touched their sorrows, and
they wept. He spoke of the conflicts, the triumphs, the glories of their
faith, and they broke out in thunders of applause. He hushed them into
reverent silence, and led them tenderly, with the wise men of the East,
to the lowly birthplace of Jesus.

"Do thou, therefore, likewise leave the Jewish people, the troubled
city, the bloodthirsty tyrant, the pomp of the world, and hasten to
Bethlehem, the sweet house of spiritual bread. For though thou be but a
shepherd, and come hither, thou shalt behold the young Child in an inn.
Though thou be a king, and come not hither, thy purple robe shall profit
thee nothing. Though thou be one of the wise men, this shall be no
hindrance to thee. Only let thy coming be to honour and adore, with
trembling joy, the Son of God, to whose name be glory, on this His
birthday, and forever and forever."

The soul of Hermas did not answer to the musician's touch. The strings
of his heart were slack and soundless; there was no response within
him. He was neither shepherd, nor king, nor wise man; only an unhappy,
dissatisfied, questioning youth. He was out of sympathy with the eager
preacher, the joyous hearers. In their harmony he had no part. Was it
for this that he had forsaken his inheritance and narrowed his life to
poverty and hardship? What was it all worth?

The gracious prayers with which the young converts were blessed and
dismissed before the sacrament sounded hollow in his ears. Never had he
felt so utterly lonely as in that praying throng. He went out with his
companions like a man departing from a banquet where all but he had been
fed.

"Farewell, Hermas," they cried, as he turned from them at the door. But
he did not look back, nor wave his hand. He was already alone in his
heart.

When he entered the broad Avenue of the Colonnades, the sun had already
topped the eastern hills, and the ruddy light was streaming through the
long double row of archways and over the pavements of crimson marble.
But Hermas turned his back to the morning, and walked with his shadow
before him.

The street began to swarm and whirl an