“I am honored,” he said, “this day.  To what shall I ascribe the notice of the wealthy Mr. Armstrong?”

There was a slight tone of irony in the words.  It probably was observed by Mr. Armstrong, for, with some feeling, he replied: 

“Speak to me not so coldly.  And yet,” he added, dejectedly, “I deserve that all the world should reject me.  Neither the happy nor the miserable feel sympathy for me.”

The wayward humor of Holden was evidently softened by the sadness of the sweet, low voice.

“Each heart,” he said, “knoweth best its own bitterness, and I repent me of my rudeness.  But when I saw thee here I could not but remember that I had dwelt long years in this dwelling, and”—­he hesitated, and Armstrong finished the sentence: 

“And you would say this is the first time I have darkened your door.  Well may it be called darkness where my unhappy shadow falls.  But forgive me:  it is only lately that I learned to know you.”

“Thou errest, James Armstrong,” returned Holden, “if thou thinkest thou knowest me, or will ever know me.  Yet, after all,” he added in a gentler manner, “thou art right.  Yes, know me as a fellow sinner, journeying with thee to eternity.”

“As my friend,” replied Armstrong; “as the guide whose deeper experience in heavenly things shall teach me the way to heaven, unless by some inscrutable decree I am excluded.”

“How has my heart been open, how has it longed for years to meet thine!  How gladly would I have poured out my grief into thy bosom as into that of a brother!” cried Holden, his voice choked with emotion.

The countenance of Mr. Armstrong betrayed astonishment.  “How is this?” he said.  “I never knew it.  You have always been to me as a common acquaintance.”

A shade fell on the face of Holden.  He misunderstood the meaning of the other.  He supposed the phrase applicable to the feelings of Armstrong towards himself, and not as descriptive of his own conduct to Armstrong.  “For the sake of the little Faith,” he said coldly, “who is now a lovely woman, have I highly regarded thee.”

“It is even so,” said Armstrong, in a melancholy tone.  “There are none left to love me for my own sake.  Yet why should I quarrel with my own daughter?  Let me rather be grateful that she has been the means of attracting one being towards me.  How can I show my friendship?  How can I make you my friend?”

“I am thy friend,” cried Holden, grasping his hand with another revulsion of feeling.  “Put me to any proof.  I will not fail.”

“If money could avail with a man like you,” continued Armstrong, “it should not be wanting.  If ease or luxury could tempt—­but you have trampled them under foot, and what are they to one whose conversation is in heaven?”

Holden, while he was speaking, had risen from his seat and strode twice or thrice across the room.  When Armstrong had finished speaking he again approached him.