"How do you feel after it?" inquired Henry.
"Rather depressed, though I hope to tone up again."
"Bart," said Henry, gravely, "I haven't seen much of you for two or three years; I used to get queer glimpses of you in your letters, and I must look through your mental and moral make-up some time."
"You will find me like the sterile, stony glebe, which, when the priest reached in his career of invocation and blessing—'Here,' said the holy father, 'prayers and supplications are of no avail. This must have manure.' Grace would, I fear, be wasted on me, and our good mother would willingly see me under your subsoiling and fertilizing hand."
"Do you ever seriously think?"
"I? oh yes! such thoughts as I can think. I think of the wondrously beautiful in nature, and am glad. I think of the wretched race of men, and am sad. I think of my shallow self, and am mad."
Henry, with unchanged gravity: "Do you believe in anything?"
"Yes, I believe fully in our mother; a good deal in you, though my faith is shaken a little just now; and am inclined to great faith in your friend Mr. Ranney."
All smile but Henry. "Yes, all that of course, but abstract propositions. Have you faith, in anything?"
"Well, I believe in genius, I believe in poetry—though not much in poets—music—though that is not for men. I believe in love—for those who may have it. I believe in woman and in God. When I draw myself close to Him, I am overcome with a great awe, and dare not pray. It is only when I seem to push Him off, and coop Him up in a little crystal-domed palace beyond the stars, and out of hearing, that I dare tell Him how huge He is, and pipe little serenades of psalmody to Him."