earthiness of his own personality, the dead, dull ordinariness of his own appearance.  Why, oh, why, could not all faces let the soul shine through?  Why could not all identify themselves with their eternal part, and thus learn happiness and joy?  A sense of the futile agony of life led him with an impassioned eagerness again to the thought of Skale’s tremendous visions, and of the great Experiment that beckoned beyond.  Only, once more the terror of its possible meaning dropped upon him, and the little black serpents of fear shot warningly across this brighter background of his hopes.

Then he was aware that Miriam had crossed the room and stood beside him, for her delicate and natural perfume announced her even before he turned and saw.  Her soft eyes shining conveyed an irresistible appeal, and with her came the sense of peace she always brought.  She was the one thing at that moment that could comfort and he opened his arms to her and let her come nestling in against him, both hands finding their way up under the lapels of his coat, all the exquisite confidence of the innocent child in her look.  Her hair came over his lips and face like flowers, but he did not kiss her, nor could he find any words to say.  To hold her there was enough, for the touch of her healed and blessed him.

“So now you have seen her as she really is,” he heard her voice against his shoulder; “you have heard her true name, and seen a little of its form and color!”

“I never guessed that in this world—­” he stammered; then, instead of completing the sentence, held her more tightly to him and let his face sink deeper into the garden of her hair.

“Oh yes,” she answered, and then peered up with unflinching look into his eyes, “for that is just how I see you too—­bright, splendid and eternal.”

“Miriam!” It was as unexpected as a ghost and as incredible.  “Me ...?”

“Of course!  You see I know your true name.  I see you as you are within!”

Something came to steady his swimming brain, but it was only after a distinct effort that he realized it was the voice of Mr. Skale addressing him.  Then, gradually, as he listened, gently releasing the girl in order to turn towards him, he understood that what he had witnessed had been in the nature of a “test”—­one of those tests he had been warned would come—­and that his attitude to it was regarded by the clergyman with approval.

“It was a test more subtle than you know, perhaps, Mr. Spinrobin,” he was saying, “and the feelings it has roused in you are an adequate proof that you have come well through it.  As I knew you would, as I knew you would,” he added, with evident satisfaction.  “They do infinite credit both to yourself and to our judgment in—­er—­accepting you.”

A wave of singular emotion seemed to pass across the room from one to the other that, catching the breathless secretary in its tide, filled him with a high pride that he had been weighed and found worthy, then left him cold with a sudden reaction as he realized after some delay the import of the words Mr. Skale was next saying to him.