Holder was silent, from sheer inability to speak.

“If you had needed an advocate with me,” the bishop continued, “you could not have had one to whose counsel I would more willingly have listened, than that of Horace Bentley.  He wrote asking to come and see me, but I went to him in Dalton Street the day I returned.  And it gives me satisfaction, Mr. Holder, to confess to you freely that he has taught me, by his life, more of true Christianity than I have learned in all my experience elsewhere.”

“I had thought,” exclaimed the rector, wonderingly, “that I owed him more than any other man.”

“There are many who think that—­hundreds, I should say,” the bishop replied . . . .  “Eldon Parr ruined him, drove him from the church....  It is strange how, outside of the church, his influence has silently and continuously grown until it has borne fruit in—­this.  Even now,” he added after a pause, “the cautiousness, the dread of change which comes with old age might, I think, lead me to be afraid of it if I—­didn’t perceive behind it the spirit of Horace Bentley.”

It struck Holder, suddenly, what an unconscious but real source of confidence this thought had likewise been to him.  He spoke of it.

“It is not that I wouldn’t trust you,” the bishop went on.  “I have watched you, I have talked to Asa Waring, I have read the newspapers.  In spite of it all, you have kept your head, you have not compromised the dignity of the Church.  But oh, my friend, I beg you to bear in mind that you are launched upon deep waters, that you have raised up many enemies —­enemies of Christ—­who seek to destroy you.  You are still young.  And the uncompromising experiment to which you are pledged, of freeing your church, of placing her in the position of power and influence in the community which is rightfully hers, is as yet untried.  And no stone will be left unturned to discourage and overcome you.  You have faith,—­you have made me feel it as you sat here,—­a faith which will save you from bitterness in personal defeat.  You may not reap the victory, or even see it in your lifetime.  But of this I am sure, that you will be able to say, with Paul, ’I have planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the increase.’  Whatever happens, you may count upon my confidence and support.  I can only wish that I were younger, that my arm were stronger, and that I had always perceived the truth as clearly as I see it now.”

Holder had risen involuntarily while these words were being spoken.  They were indeed a benediction, and the intensity of his feeling warned him of the inadequacy of any reply.  They were pronounced in sorrow, yet in hope, and they brought home to him, sharply, the nobility of the bishop’s own sacrifice.

“And you, sir?” he asked.

“Ah,” answered the bishop, “with this I shall have had my life.  I am content. . . .”

“You will come to me again, Hodder? some other day,” he said, after an interval, “that we may talk over the new problems.  They are constructive, creative, and I am anxious to hear how you propose to meet them.  For one thing, to find a new basis for the support of such a parish.  I understand they have deprived you of your salary.”