“It is not often, brother Holden,” said Mr. Armstrong, addressing him by an epithet sometimes applied to him, “that I am so fortunate as to meet you in my house.”

“Dost thou speak from the heart, James Armstrong,” replied Holden, “or art thou flattering me with empty conventionalities?”

The melancholy face of Mr. Armstrong looked distressed, but, remembering the wayward humor of the other, he gently answered: 

“I am sorry the form of expression displeases you; but I assure you I am glad to see you.”

“Nay,” said Holden, “let me rather beg pardon for my rudeness; and that I fully believe thee, be my presence here the proof.  I owe thee many obligations through thy daughter, and there are times when it does me good to be with her.  It is then I fancy I hear in her voice the tones of the long lost, and they come not with a wail of sorrow, but like a welcome and an invitation.”

“The lost!” softly said Armstrong, falling insensibly, and as by some mesmeric process, into a corresponding train of feeling, “the lost! how soon drop away from our sides those who made the morning of life so pleasant!”

“Man is born to trouble, as the sparks fly upward,” said Holden.  “He cometh from the womb of darkness, and returneth thither again.”

The two men drew their chairs nearer each other.  It seemed as if a new community of thought and feeling had been established between them.

“You have suffered,” said Armstrong, “perhaps lost all your dear ones, and, in that, more miserable than I; for, have I not left my Faith?  But the hand that inflicted the wound can heal, and I trust the balm has been poured in.”

The countenance of Holden was agitated; his lips trembled, and, in a broken voice, he replied: 

“The nearest and dearest are gone.  Yet hath God left me some comfort in my affliction.  I am not entirely bereft.”

“In the promises of the Holy Scriptures you find consolation.  Happy the soul that draws comfort from their sacred pages!”

“I meant not entirely so.  But it avails not now to explain.  Yet art thou right.  I do find in the precious Book my dearest hope.  Without it, I were miserable indeed.”

“And it sustains you under every trial and temptation?”

“Assuredly.  For that very purpose was it given, that man might not sink under the mystery of existence; that in its pages he should find hope.”

“And you find in it the warrant of your salvation?”

“I strive to work out my salvation, with fear and trembling.”

“There are many who strive to enter, who shall not be able.  How may one be assured of safety?”

“There is a justification by faith.  Hast thou never tasted of its sweetness?”

“Alas! no,” exclaimed Armstrong.  “I have prayed for it, and longed for it in vain.  The threatenings of the Gospel and not its promises are mine.”

“Father, dear father, how can you speak so wildly?” cried his daughter, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing his pale cheek.