the last was simply admirable.  It entirely engrossed me, and for a blessed day or two I lived in your mind, and saw out of your eyes.  I am sure it was a great book—­a noble and a large-hearted book, full of insight and faith—­the best kind of book.”  I murmured something; and he said, “You may think it is arrogant of me to speak like this; but I have lived among books, and I am sure that I have a critical gift, mainly because I have no power of expression.  You know the best kind of critics are the men who have tried to write books, and have failed, as long as their failure does not make them envious and ungenerous; I have failed many times, but I think I admire good work all the more for that.  You are writing now?” “No,” I said, “I am writing nothing.”  “Well, I am sorry to hear it,” he said, “and may I venture to ask why?” “Simply because I cannot,” I said; and now there came upon me a strange feeling, the same sort of feeling that one has in answering the questions of a great and compassionate physician, who assumes the responsibility of one’s case.  Not only did I not resent these questions, as I should often have resented them, but it seemed to give me a sense of luxury and security to give an account of myself to this wise and unaffected old man.  He bent his brows upon me:  “You have had a great sorrow lately?” he said.  “Yes,” I said, “we have lost our only boy, nine years old.”  “Ah,” he said, “a sore stroke, a sore stroke!” and there was a deep tenderness in his voice that made me feel that I should have liked to kneel down before him, and weep at his knee, with his hand laid in blessing on my head.  We sate in silence for a few moments.  “Is it this that has stopped your writing?” he said.  “No,” I said, “the power had gone from me before—­I could not originate, I could only do the same sort of work, and of weaker quality than before.”  “Well,” he said, “I don’t wonder; the last book must have been a great strain, though I am sure you were happy when you wrote it.  I remember a friend of mine, a great Alpine climber, who did a marvellous feat of climbing some unapproachable peak—­without any sense of fatigue, he told me, all pure enjoyment—­but he had a heart-attack the next day, and paid the penalty of his enjoyment.  He could not climb for some years after that.”  “Yes,” I said, “I think that has been my case—­but my fear is that if I lose the habit—­and I seem to have lost it—­I shall never be able to take it up again.”  “No, you need not fear that,” he replied; “if something is given you to say, you will be able to say it, and say it better than ever—­but no doubt you feel very much lost without it.  How do you fill the time?” “I hardly know,” I said, “not very profitably—­ I read, I teach my daughter, I muddle along.”  “Well,” he said, smiling, “the hours in which we muddle along are not our worst hours.  You believe in God?” The suddenness of this question surprised me.  “Yes,” I said, “I believe in God.  I cannot disbelieve.  Something has