“Suppose you had been born blind, Ned,” he began, “and no one had ever given you a hint of the sense of vision, and your imagination had never presented such a power to your mind.  Can you suppose that?”

“I think so—­yes,” the brother-in-law answered, with careful gentleness, watching always the illumined countenance.  “Yes, I can suppose it.”

“Then fancy if you will that all at once sight came, and the world flashed before you.  Do you think you’d be able to describe such an experience?”

The voice was normal, reflective.  Many a time the two had talked together of such things in this very room, and the naturalness of the scene, and of the judge’s manner, made the brother-in-law for a second forget the tragedy in which they were living.

“Why, of course,” he answered.  “If one had never heard of such a power one’s vocabulary wouldn’t take in the words to describe it.”

“Exactly,” the judge agreed.  “That’s the point I’m making.  Perhaps now I may tell you what it is that has happened.  Or rather, I may make you understand how a definite and concrete event has come to pass, which I can’t tell you.”

Alarm suddenly expressed itself beyond control in the brother-in-law’s face.  “John, what do you mean?  Do you see that you distress me?  Can’t you tell clearly if some one has been here—­what it is, in plain English, that has happened?”

The judge turned his dreamy, bright look toward the frightened man.  “I do see—­I do see,” he brought out affectionately.  “I’ll try to tell, as you say, in plain English.  But it is like the case I put—­it is a question of lack of vocabulary.  A remarkable experience has occurred in this room within an hour.  I can no more describe it than the man born blind could describe sight.  I can only call it by one name, which may startle you.  A revelation.”

“A revelation!” the tone expressed incredulity, scarcely veiled scorn.

The judge’s brilliant gaze rested undisturbed on the speaker.  “I understand—­none better.  A day ago, two hours ago, I should have answered in that tone.  We have been trained in the same school, and have thought alike.  Dick was here a while ago and said things—­you know what Dick would say.  You know how you and I have been sorry for the lad—­been indulgent to him—­with his keen, broad mind and that inspired self-forgetfulness of his—­how we’ve been sorry to have such qualities wasted on a parson, a religion machine.  We’ve thought he’d come around in time, that he was too large a personality to be tied to a treadmill.  We’ve thought that all along, haven’t we?  Well, Dick was here, and out of the hell where I was I thought that again.  When he talked I thought in a way—­for I couldn’t think much—­that after a consistent voyage of agnosticism, I wouldn’t be whipped into snivelling belief at the end, by shipwreck.  I would at least go down without surrendering.  In a dim way I thought that.  And all that I thought then, and have thought through my life, is nothing.  Reasoning doesn’t weigh against experience.  Dick is right.”