"Yes, sir—I doubt even the efficacy of typhoid in most cases; it's as difficult for an old person to change a habit of thought as to take the wrinkles from his face. That is why what we very grandly call 'fighting for the truth' or 'fighting for the Lord' is merely fighting for our own little notions; they have become so vital to us and we call them 'truth.'"
The youth stopped, with a palpable air of defiance, before which the old man's assumption of ease and lightness was at last beaten down. He had been standing erect by the table, still with the smile toning his haggardness. Now the smile died; the whole man sickened, lost life visibly, as if a dozen years of normal aging were condensed into the dozen seconds.
He let himself go into the big chair, almost as if falling, his head bowed, his eyes dulled to a look of absence, his arms falling weakly over the chair's sides. A sigh that was almost a groan seemed to tell of pain both in body and mind.
Bernal stood awkwardly regarding him, then his face lighted with a sudden pity.
"But I thought you could understand, sir; I thought you were different; you have been like a chum to me. When I spoke of old persons it never occurred to me that you could fall into that class! I never knew you to be unjust, or unkind, or—narrow—perhaps I should say, unsympathetic."
The other gave no sign of hearing.
"My body was breaking so fast—and you break my heart!"
"There you are, sir," began the youth, a little excitedly. "Your heart is breaking not because I'm not good, but because I form a different opinion from yours of a man rising from the dead, after he has been crucified to appease the anger of his father."
"God help me! I'm so human. I can't feel toward you as I should. Boy, I won't believe you are sane." He looked up in a sudden passion of hope. "I won't believe Christ died in vain for my girl's little boy. Bernal, boy, you are still sick of that fever!"
The other smiled, his youthful scorn for the moment overcoming his deeper feeling for his listener.