On the night of the home-coming he greeted the youth quite as if all were serene within him, determined to be in no haste and to approach the thing lightly on the morrow—­in the fond hope that a mere breath of authority might blow it away.

And when, the next morning, they both drifted to the study, the old man called up the smile that made his wrinkles sunny, and said in light tones, above the beating of an anxious heart: 

“So it’s your theory, boy, that we must all be taken down with typhoid before we can be really wise in matters of faith?”

But the youth answered, quite earnestly: 

“Yes, sir; I really believe nothing less than that would clear most minds—­especially old ones.  You see, the brain is a muscle and thought is its physical exercise.  It learns certain thoughts—­to go through certain exercises.  These become a habit, and in time the muscle becomes stiff and incapable of learning any new movements—­also incapable of leaving off the old.  The religion of an old person is merely so much reflex nervous action.  It is beyond the reach of reason.  The individual’s mind can affect it as little as it can teach the other muscles of his body new suppleness.”

He spoke with a certain restrained nervousness that was not reassuring.  But the old man would not yet be rebuffed from his manner of lightness.

“Then, wanting an epidemic of typhoid, we of the older generation must die in error.”

“Yes, sir—­I doubt even the efficacy of typhoid in most cases; it’s as difficult for an old person to change a habit of thought as to take the wrinkles from his face.  That is why what we very grandly call ’fighting for the truth’ or ‘fighting for the Lord’ is merely fighting for our own little notions; they have become so vital to us and we call them ‘truth.’”

The youth stopped, with a palpable air of defiance, before which the old man’s assumption of ease and lightness was at last beaten down.  He had been standing erect by the table, still with the smile toning his haggardness.  Now the smile died; the whole man sickened, lost life visibly, as if a dozen years of normal aging were condensed into the dozen seconds.

He let himself go into the big chair, almost as if falling, his head bowed, his eyes dulled to a look of absence, his arms falling weakly over the chair’s sides.  A sigh that was almost a groan seemed to tell of pain both in body and mind.

Bernal stood awkwardly regarding him, then his face lighted with a sudden pity.

“But I thought you could understand, sir; I thought you were different; you have been like a chum to me.  When I spoke of old persons it never occurred to me that you could fall into that class!  I never knew you to be unjust, or unkind, or—­narrow—­perhaps I should say, unsympathetic.”

The other gave no sign of hearing.

“My body was breaking so fast—­and you break my heart!”