“You?” she said with bitter melancholy.  “Are not you one of the Bishop’s priests?”

“I am a deacon, and Theophilus is the head of my church; but for that very reason . . .”

“No,” said Agne sharply, “I will deceive no one.  My parents were Arians, and as my beliefs are the same as theirs the Bishop has driven me away as an outcast, finally and without pity.”

“Indeed,” said Eusebius.  “Did the Bishop do that?  Well, as the head of a large community of Christians he, of course, is bound to look at things in their widest aspect; small things, small people can be nothing to him.  I, on the contrary, am myself but a small personage, and I care for small things.  You know, child, that the Lord has said ’that in his Father’s kingdom there are many mansions,’ and that in which Arius dwells is not mine; but it is in the Father’s kingdom nevertheless.  It cannot be so much amiss after all that you should cling to the creed of your parents.  What is your name?”

“Agne.”

“Agne, or the lamb.  A pretty, good name!  It is a name I love, as I, too, am a shepherd, though but a very humble one, so trust yourself to me, little lamb.  Tell me, why are you crying?  And whom do you seek here?  And how is it that you do not know where to find a home?”

Eusebius spoke with such homely kindness, and his voice was so full of fatherly sympathy that hope revived in Agne’s breast, and she told him with frank confidence all he wanted to know.

The old man listened with many a “Hum” and “Ha”—­then he bid her accompany him to his own house, where his wife would find a corner that she might fill.

She gladly agreed, and thanked him eagerly when he also told the doorkeeper to bring Papias after them if he should be found.  Relieved of the worst of her griefs, Agne followed her new friend through the streets and lanes, till they paused at the gate of a small garden and he said:  “Here we are.  What we have we give gladly, but it is little, very little.  Indeed, who can bear to live in luxury when so many are perishing in want and misery?”

As they went across the plot, between the little flower-beds, the deacon pointed to a tree and said with some pride:  “Last year that tree bore me three hundred and seven peaches, and it is still healthy and productive.”

A hospitable light twinkled in the little house at the end of the garden, and as they entered a queer-looking dog came out to meet his master, barking his welcome.  He jumped with considerable agility on his fore-legs, but his hind legs were paralyzed and his body sloped away and stuck up in the air as though it were attached to an invisible board.

“This is my good friend Lazarus,” said the old man cheerfully.  “I found the poor beggar in the road one day, and as he was one of God’s creatures, although he is a cripple, I comfort myself with the verse from the Psalms:  ’The Lord has no joy in the strength of a horse, neither taketh he pleasure in any man’s legs.’”