argument for the amusement of himself and the other two men present, and therefore I did what was incumbent upon me to do in such a situation—­held my peace.  Dr. Brayle watched me curiously,—­and poor Catherine Harland turned her plaintive eyes upon me full of alarm.  She had learned to dread her father’s fondness for starting topics which led to religious discussions of a somewhat heated nature.  But as I did not speak, Mr. Harland was placed in the embarrassing position of a person propounding a theory which no one shows any eagerness to accept or to deny, and, looking slightly confused, he went on in a lighter and more casual way—­

“I had a friend once at Oxford,—­a wonderful fellow, full of strange dreams and occult fancies.  He was one of those who believed in the Divine half of man.  He used to study curious old books and manuscripts till long past midnight, and never seemed tired.  His father had lived by choice in some desert corner of Egypt for forty years, and in Egypt this boy had been born.  Of his mother he never spoke.  His father died suddenly and left him a large fortune under trustees till he came of age, with instructions that he was to be taken to England and educated at Oxford, and that when he came into possession of his money, he was to be left free to do as he liked with it.  I met him when he was almost half-way through his University course.  I was only two or three years his senior, but he always looked much younger than I. And he was, as we all said, ’uncanny ’—­as uncanny as our little friend,”—­here indicating me by a nod of his head and a smile which was meant to be kindly—­“He never practised or ‘trained’ for anything and yet all things came easily to him.  He was as magnificent in his sports as he was in his studies, and I remember—­how well I remember it!—­that there came a time at last when we all grew afraid of him.  If we saw him coming along the ‘High’ we avoided him,—­he had something of terror as well as admiration for us,—­and though I was of his college and constantly thrown into association with him, I soon became infected with the general scare.  One night he stopped me in the quadrangle where he had his rooms—­”

Here Mr. Harland broke off suddenly.

“I’m boring you,”—­he said—­“I really have no business to inflict the recollections of my youth upon you.”

Dr. Brayle’s brown eyes showed a glistening animal interest.

“Pray go on!” he urged—­“It sounds like the chapter of a romance.”

“I’m not a believer in romance,”—­said Mr. Harland, grimly—­“Facts are enough in themselves without any embroidered additions.  This fellow was a Fact,—­a healthy, strong, energetic, living Fact.  He stopped me in the quadrangle as I tell you,—­and he laid his hand on my shoulder.  I shrank from his touch, and had a restless desire to get away from him.  ‘What’s the matter with you, Harland?’ he said, in a grave, musical voice that was peculiarly his own—­’You seem afraid of me.