The bell rang sharply, as if answering his question.  He started from his chair, having heard no approaching footsteps.  He covered the photograph of Evelina with Ralph’s letters, but the sweet face of the boy’s mother still looked out at him from its gilt frame.

The old housekeeper went to the door with the utmost leisure.  It seemed to him an eternity before the door was opened.  He stood there, waiting, summoning his faculties of calmness and his powers of control, to meet Evelina—­to have out, at last, all the shame of the years.

But it was not Evelina.  The Reverend Austin Thorpe was wiping his feet carefully upon the door-mat, and asking in deep, vibrant tones:  “Is the Doctor in?”

Anthony Dexter could have cried out from relief.  When the white-haired old man came in, floundering helplessly among the furniture, as a near-sighted person does, he greeted him with a cordiality that warmed his heart.

“I am glad,” said the minister, “to find you in.  Sometimes I am not so fortunate.  I came late, for that reason.”

“I’ve been busy,” returned the Doctor.  “Sit down.”

The minister sank into an easy chair and leaned toward the light.  “I wish I could have a lamp like this in my room,” he remarked.  “It gives a good light.”

“You can have this one,” returned Dexter, with an hysterical laugh,

“I was not begging,” said Mr. Thorpe, with dignity.  “Miss Mehitable’s lamps are all small.  Some of them give no more light than a candle.”

“‘How far that little candle throws its beams,’” quoted Dexter. “’So shines a good deed in a naughty world.’”

There was a long interval of silence.  Sometimes Thorpe and Doctor Dexter would sit for an entire evening with less than a dozen words spoken on either side, yet feeling the comfort of human companionship.

“I was thinking,” said, Thorpe, finally, “of the supreme isolation of the human soul.  You and I sit here, talking or not, as the mood strikes us, and yet, what does speech matter?  You know no more of me than I choose to give you, nor I of you.”

“No,” responded Dexter, “that is quite true.”  He did not realise what Thorpe had just said, but he felt that it was safe to agree.

“One grows morbid in thinking of it,” pursued Thorpe, screening his blue eyes from the light with his hand.  “We are like a vast plain of mountain peaks.  Some of us have our heads in the clouds always, up among the eternal snows.  Thunders boom about us, lightning rives us, storm and sleet beat upon us.  There is a rumbling on some distant peak and we know that it rains there, too.  That is all we ever know.  We are not quite sure when our neighbours are happy or when they are troubled; when there is sun and when there is storm.  The secret forces in the interior of the mountain work on unceasingly.  The distance hides it all.  We never get near enough to another peak to see the scars upon its surface, to know of the dead timber and the dried streams, the marks of avalanches and glacial drift, the precipices and pitfalls, the barren wastes.  In blue, shimmering distance, the peaks are veiled and all seem fair but our own.”