him; had he for a moment entertained the merest glimmering of an idea that he was better, and therefore happier than most men, he would, in his own opinion, have been guilty of unpardonable arrogance and presumption.  What he saw, and what sincerely and unselfishly grieved him, was that the people of this present age were unhappy—­discontented—­restless,—­that something of the simple joy of existence had gone out of the world,- -that even the brilliant discoveries of science and the so-called “progress” of men only served apparently to increase their discontent,—­that when they were overcome by sorrow, sickness, or death, they had little philosophy and less faith to support them,—­ and that except in the few cases where Christ was still believed in, they gave way altogether and broke down like frightened children in a storm.

“Thou hast a few names, even in Sardis!” A few names!  But how few!  Universal weariness of life seemed a disease of the time,—­there was nothing that seemed to satisfy—­even the newest and most miraculous results of scientific research and knowledge ceased to be interesting after the first week of their triumphant public demonstration and acceptance.

“The world must be growing old,” said the Cardinal sadly,—­“It must be losing its vigour,—­it is too tired to lift itself to the light; too weary and worn out to pray.  Perhaps the end of all present things is at hand,—­perhaps it is the beginning of the promised ’new heavens and new earth.’”

Just then the organ-music ceased abruptly, and the Cardinal, waking from his thoughts as from a trance, rose up slowly and stood for a moment facing the great High Altar, which at that distance could only just be discerned among its darkening surroundings by the little flickering flame of the suspended lamp burning dimly before the holy Tabernacle, wherein was locked with golden key behind snowy doors of spotless marble, the sacred and mysterious Host.

“When the son of man cometh, think ye he shall find faith on earth?”

Again that searching question repeated itself in his mind so distinctly as to be echoed in his ears,—­the deep silence around him seemed waiting expectantly for some reply, and moved by a strange spirit of exaltation within him, he answered half aloud—­

“Yes!  Surely He will find faith,—­if only in the few!  There are ’a few names, even in Sardis!’ In the sorrowful and meek,—­in the poor and patient and downtrodden martyrs of humanity, He will find faith;—­in the very people He died to save He will discover that most precious and inspiring of all virtues!  But in the so-called wise and brilliant favourites of the world He will not find it,—­in the teachers of the people He will search for it in vain.  By the writers of many books He shall find Himself scorned and rejected,—­ in the cheap and spurious philosophy of modern egotists