chairs, their feet resting on footstools, or, flat on their
backs, lie stretched on the floor, dreaming away the
hours. Balancing on one foot, with eyes half open,
the porter starts up in blank amazement and looks at
the Stranger, calls out, rubs his eyes,—amazed beyond [20]
measure that anybody is animated with a purpose, and
seen working for it!
They in this house are those that “provoke Him in
the wilderness, and grieve Him in the desert.” Away
from this charnel-house of the so-called living, the Stranger [25]