The primitive humanity of this touched Theron, and he nodded approbation with a tender smile in his eyes, forgetting for the moment that a personal application of the monologue had been hinted at.

“But then later, as I grew up,” the sick man went on, “I learned that it was not altogether certain.  Some of the authorities, I found, maintained that it was doubtful, and some said openly that there must be salvation possible for good people who lived in ignorance of the truth through no fault of their own.  Then I had hope one day, and no hope the next, and as I did my work I thought it over, and in the evenings my father and I talked it over, and we settled nothing of it at all.  Of course, how could we?”

“Did you ever discuss the question with your sister?” it occurred suddenly to Theron to interpose.  He was conscious of some daring in doing so, and he fancied that Michael’s drawn face clouded a little at his words.

“My sister is no theologian,” he answered briefly.  “Women have no call to meddle with such matters.  But I was saying—­it was in the middle of these doubtings of mine that you came here to Octavius, and I noticed you on the streets, and once in the evening—­I made no secret of it to my people—­I sat in the back of your church and heard you preach.  As I say, I liked you.  It was your face, and what I thought it showed of the man underneath it, that helped settle my mind more than anything else.  I said to myself:  ’Here is a young man, only about my own age, and he has education and talents, and he does not seek to make money for himself, or a great name, but he is content to live humbly on the salary of a book-keeper, and devote all his time to prayer and the meditation of his religion, and preaching, and visiting the sick and the poor, and comforting them.  His very face is a pleasure and a help for those in suffering and trouble to look at.  The very sight of it makes one believe in pure thoughts and merciful deeds.  I will not credit it that God intends damning such a man as that, or any like him!’”

Theron bowed, with a slow, hesitating gravity of manner, and deep, not wholly complacent, attention on his face.  Evidently all this was by way of preparation for something unpleasant.

“That was only last spring,” said Michael.  His tired voice sank for a sentence or two into a meditative half-whisper.  “And it was my last spring of all.  I shall not be growing weak any more, or drawing hard breaths, when the first warm weather comes.  It will be one season to me hereafter, always the same.”  He lifted his voice with perceptible effort.  “I am talking too much.  The rest I can say in a word.  Only half a year has gone by, and you have another face on you entirely.  I had noticed the small changes before, one by one.  I saw the great change, all of a sudden, the day of the picnic.  I see it a hundred times more now, as you sit there.  If it seemed to me like the face of a saint before, it is more like the face of a bar-keeper now!”