and daughters of joy looking out from their windows, all intoxicated with the mere delight of living and the gladness of a new day. The pagan populace of Antioch-reckless, pleasure-loving, spendthrift —were preparing for the Saturnalia. But all this Hermas had renounced. He cleft his way through the crowd slowly, like a reluctant swimmer weary of breasting the tide. A yellow-haired girl laid hold of his robe as he passed. It seemed as if she had plucked him by the heart. He went out by the Western Gate, under the golden cherubim that the Emperor Titus had stolen from the ruined Temple of Jerusalem and fixed upon the arch of triumph. He turned to the left and climbed the hill to the road that led to the Grove of Daphne. In all the world, there was no highway so beautiful. It wound for five miles along the foot of the mountains, among gardens and villas, plantations of myrtles and mulberries, with wide outlooks over the valley of Orontes and the distant shimmering sea. The richest of all the dwellings was the House of the Golden Pillars, the mansion of Demetrius. He had won the favor of the apostate Emperor Julian, whose vain efforts to restore the worship of the heathen gods, some twenty years ago, had opened an easy way to wealth and power for all who would mock and oppose Christianity. Demetrius was not a sincere fanatic like his royal master; but he was bitter enough in his professed scorn of the new religion to make him a favorite at the court where the old religion was in fashion. He had reaped a rich reward of his policy; and a strange sense of consistency made him more fiercely loyal to it than if it had been a real faith. He was proud of being called "the friend of Julian ;" and when his son joined himself to the Christians, and acknowledged the Unseen God, it seemed like an insult to his father's success. He drove the boy from his door and disinherited him. The glittering portico of the serene, haughty house, the repose of the well-ordered garden, still blooming with belated flowers, seemed at once to deride and to invite the young outcast plodding along the dusty road. This is your birthright," whispered the clambering rose-trees by the gate; and the closed portals of carven bronze said: "You have sold it for a thought, a dream." Hermas found the Grove of Daphne quite deserted. There was no sound in the enchanted vale but the pattering of the light winds chasing each other through the laurel thickets, and the babble of innumerable streams. Memories of the days and nights of delicate pleasure that the grove had often seen, still haunted the bewildered paths and broken fountains. At the foot of a rocky eminence, crowned with the ruins of Apollo's temple, which had been mysteriously destroyed by fire just after Julian had restored and reconsecrated it, Hermas sat down beside a gushing spring, and gave himself up to sadness. "How beautiful the world would be, how joyful, how easy to live in, without religion. These questions about unseen things, perhaps about unreal things, these restraints and duties and sacrifices—if I were only free from them all, and could only forget them all, then I could live my life as I pleased, and be happy." "Why not?" said a quiet voice, answering his thoughts. He turned and saw an old man, with a long beard and a threadbare cloak (the garb affected by the pagan philosophers) standing behind him and smiling curiously. "How is it that you reply to that which has not been spoken?" said Hermas; "and who are you that honor a poor young man with the company of a philosopher?" "I am a long-time inhabitant here," answered the stranger; none other than the solitary priest of whom, perhaps, you have heard; whom the Emperor Julian found here when he came to revive the worship of Apollo, a score of years ago. I brought the only offering in response to his call for a renewal of sacrifices in this temple. My gift was a goose, you may remember it was all that I had, and I thought it not inappropriate. But I have lived here far longer than since Julian's time. I know all that has passed in this grove, the feasts and revels, and the various rites of many religions, including that of the Christian martyr Babylas, whose ruined chapel you see just beyond this ruined temple of Apollo. But these dusty shrines interest me very little. They are transitory. The thing that I care for is the human life that has played here for so many years, and that still disports itself very pleasantly-believe me, for I know, -on summer evenings through these shady walks. Daphne and Apollo were only shadows. But the flying maidens and the pursuing lovers, the music and the delight of existence, these are the realities. Life is the game, and the world keeps it up merrily. But you? You are of a sad countenance for one so young and beautiful. Are you a loser in the game?" The words and tone of the speaker fitted Hermas's mood as a key fits the lock. He opened his heart to the old man, and told him the story of his life: his luxurious boyhood in his father's house; the irresistible spell which compelled him to forsake it when he heard John's preaching of the new religion; his joy in becoming a Christian, and the exultation with which he had welcomed his trials; his lonely year with the anchorites among the mountains; the strict discipline in his teacher's house at Antioch; his weariness of duty, his distaste for poverty, his discontent with worship. "And to day," said he, “I have been thinking that I am a fool. My life is swept as bare as a hermit's cell. There is nothing in it but a dream, a thought of God, which does not satisfy me." The singular smile deepened on his companion's face. "You are ready, then," he suggested, "to renounce your new religion and go back to that of your father? "No; I renounce nothing, I accept nothing. I do not wish to think about it. I only wish to live." "A very reasonable wish, and one of which I conjecture you are about to see the accomplishment. Indeed, I may even say that I can put you in the way of securing it. Do you believe in magic?" "I have told you already that I do not know whether I believe in anything. This is not the day on which I care to make professions of faith. I believe in what I that the Emperor Hadrian once read his fortune here from a leaf dipped in the water. Let us see what this leaf tells us. It is already turning yellow. How do you read that?” "Wealth," said Hermas, laughing, as he looked at his mean garments. "And here is a bud at the root that seems to be swelling. What is that ?" "Pleasure," answered Hermas, bitterly. "And here is a tracing of wreaths upon the surface. What do you make of that?" "What you will," said Hermas, not even taking the trouble to look. 'Suppose we say, success and fame?" "Yes," said the stranger; "it is all written here. I promise that you shall enjoy it all. But you do not need to believe in my promise. I am not in the habit of requiring faith of those whom I would serve. No such hard conditions for me. There is only one thing that I ask. This is the season that you Christians call the Christmas, and you have endowed it with the pagan custom of exchanging gifts. Well, if I give to you, you must give to me. It is a small thing, and really the thing you can best afford to part with: a single word—the name of Him you profess to worship. Let me take that word and all that belongs to it entirely out of your life, so that you shall never need to hear it or speak it again. You will be richer without it. I promise you everything, and this is all I ask in return. Do you consent?” "Yes, I consent," said Hermas, mocking. "If you can take your price, a word, you can keep your promise, a dream." The stranger laid the long, cool, wet leaf softly across the young man's eyes. An icicle of pain darted through them. Every nerve in his body was drawn together there in a knot of agony. Then it was all lifted out of him. A cool languor of delight flowed back through every vein, and he sank into a profound sleep. II AN incalculable time had passed over him when his senses began to stir again. He opened his eyes and saw the setting sun. He rose and hurried back toward Antioch, treading upon air. Already his life had changed; he was a new man, yet |