He stood silent, gazing out into the infinity of the twilight.
Afterwards when the pastoral mantle did fall upon his shoulders there was a solemn laying on of hands, a solemn reception into the ranks of those who fight for good; but the real consecration of Sidney’s life took place in that lonely silent field, where the furrows had not yet merged their identity one with the other, where the red clods were not yet hidden by the blades. Out of the twilight a mighty finger touched him, and ever after he bore upon his forehead almost as a visible light the spiritual illumination which came to him then. It was, alas, no self-comforting recognition of a personal God. It was only the sense that all was in accord between the Purposer and the world he had made; but this was much to Sidney. The man-made discord could be remedied, even as the harsh keys may be attuned. For ever after this hour he would give himself up to striving to bring his fellows into accord with the beautiful world about them.
Suddenly he felt himself alone. A speck in the vastness of the night, a little flame flickering unseen; but just as a sense of isolation began to fall upon him a mellow glow gladdened his eyes—the light from the open door of the old Lansing house. He bent his steps towards it with a humble feeling that he had trodden upon holy ground ere he was fitly purified.
In after days when many perplexities pressed upon him, he often withdrew in spirit to this twilight scene. Of its grey shades, its dim distances, its silence, its serenity, its ineffable purity he built for himself a sanctuary.
Alas! In that sanctuary the God was always veiled.
CHAPTER IX.
It was nearly two years after Sidney went forth to prepare for the pastorate of Dole, when he stood one morning reading and re-reading the brief words of a telegram:
Come at once. Mr. Didymus is dying.
Vashti Lansing.