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 mind trembling with such excitement as only he can know whose just and upright spirit has been suddenly and undeservedly wounded in its deepest feelings—and that by a man, too, whom he respected and loved above all other men.

Early in the morning, after Mass, a messenger had brought him a registered letter from the town. It was from Father Mathew Neducha, a man far advanced in age, who had been for many years to Cvok like a part of his own soul. Twelve years they had spent together in the same form at school, first at the Latin school, and later on in the priests’ seminary. Even their holidays were spent together, alternately at their respective homes. Both were naturally of a pious, thoughtful disposition, calm and gentle in character, and not easily excited. They were both fond of soaring into ideal heights and feeding their minds with ideal food. Later on they differed, it is true, on many a minor point. Neducha receded more and more from the world and its interests, and bid fair to become an ascetic—which he actually did eventually. Cvok, on the other hand, did not condemn the innocent pleasures the world has to offer, though he never forgot to observe moderation in all things, nor neglected the practice of self-denial in his daily life and conduct. Besides, he read and thought more independently than Neducha, and loved to enlarge his mind with science and human philosophy; while Neducha humbly and contentedly acquiesced in what his Church prescribed and permitted. Sometimes in riper years our two friends disagreed on such points as these, but never so much as to cause any coolness or separation between them; because, after all, they were both only seeking to arrive at truth, and though they followed different ways,