His troubled heart had ceased its striving, his wrecked nerves were still, his questionings had been answered, his ends were attained; he had drunk of the divine cup which he desired, and its wine flowed through him.

The dead had visited him, and he had tasted of the delight which lies hid in death.

On that day he felt as though nothing could hurt him any more, nothing could even move him.

The angry voices, the wars, the struggles, the questionings--all the things which torment mankind; what did they matter?
He had forced the lock and broken the bar; if only for a little while, the door had opened, and he had seen that which he desired to see and sought with all his soul, and with the wondrous harvest of this pure, inhuman passion, that owes nothing to sex, or time, or earth, he was satisfied at last.
"Why did you look so strange in church ?" asked Mary as they walked home, and her voice echoed in the spaces of his void mind as words echo in an empty hall.
His thoughts were wandering far, and with difficulty he drew them back, as birds tied by the foot are drawn back and, still fluttering to be free, brought home to the familiar cage.
"Strange, dear ?" he answered; "did I look strange ?" "Yes; like a man in a dream or the face of a saint being comfortably martyred in a picture.

Morris, I believe that you are not well.