Page:Diary of a Pilgrimage (1891).pdf/256

 He spoke in so serious a tone that almost any reply seemed out of place, and I remained silent.

"It is the story of a man who lost his own self," he continued, still looking out upon the dying light, as though he read the story there, "who stood by the death-bed of himself, and saw himself slowly die, and knew that he was dead—for ever.

"Once upon a time there lived a poor boy. He had little in common with other children. He loved to wander by himself, to think and dream all day. It was not that he was morose, or did not care for his comrades, only that something within kept whispering to his childish heart that he had deeper lessons to comprehend than his schoolmates had. And an unseen hand would lead him away into the solitude where alone he could learn their meaning.

"Ever amid the babel of the swarming street, would he hear strong, silent voices, speaking to him as he walked, telling him of the work that would one day be entrusted to his hands,—work for God, such as is given to only the very few to do, work for the helping of God's children in the world, for the making of them stronger and truer and higher;—and, in some dimly-lighted corner, where for a moment they were alone, he would stand and