“Skale is going too far,” perhaps best expresses the daily burden of his accumulating apprehension.  “He is leading up to something that makes me shrink—­something not quite legitimate.  Playing with an Olympian fire that may consume us both.”  And there his telegram stopped; for how in the world could he put into mere language the pain and distress involved in the thought that it might at the same time consume Miriam?  It all touched appalling depths of awe in his soul.  It made his heart shake.  The girl had become a part of his very self.

Vivid reactions he suffered, alternating with equally vivid enthusiasms.  He realized how visionary the clergyman’s poetical talk was, but the next minute the practical results staggered him again, as it were, back into a state of conviction.  For the poetry obscured his judgment and fired his imagination so that he could not follow calmly.  The feeling that it was not only illogical but insane troubled him; yet the physical effects stared him in the face, and to argue with physical results is waste of time.  One must act.

Yet how “act?” The only way that offered he accepted:  he fell back upon the habits of his boyhood, read his Bible, and at night dropped humbly upon his knees and prayed.

“Keep me straight and pure and simple, and bless ...  Miriam.  Grant that I may love and strengthen her ... and that my love may bring her peace ... and joy ...and guide me through all this terror, I beseech Thee, into Truth....”

For, in the beauty of his selfless love, he dared not even admit that it was love; feeling only the highest, he could not quite correlate his sweet and elevated passion with the common standards of what the World called love.  The humility of a great love is ever amazing.

And then followed in his prayers the more cowardly cry for ordinary protection from the possible results of Skale’s audacity.  The Love of God he could understand, but the Wrath of God was a conception he was still unemancipated enough to dread; and a dark, portentous terror that Skale might incur it, and that he might be dragged at its heels into some hideous catastrophe, chased him through the days and nights.  It all seemed so unlawful, impious, blasphemous....

“...  And preserve us from vain presumptions of the heart and brain, I pray Thee, lest we be consumed....  Please, O God, forgive the insolence of our wills ... and the ignorant daring of our spirit....  Permit not the innocent to suffer for the guilty ... and especially bless ...  Miriam....”

Yet through it all ran that exquisite memory of the calling of his true name in the spaces of his soul.  The beauty of far-off unattainable things hovered like a star above his head, so that he went about the house with an insatiable yearning in his heart, a perpetual smile of wonder upon his face, and in his eyes a gleam that was sometimes terror, sometimes delight.

It was almost as if some great voice called to him from the mountaintops, and the little chap was forever answering in his heart, “I’m coming!  I’m coming!” and then losing his way purposely, or hiding behind bushes on the way for fear of meeting the great invisible Caller face to face.