But the busy and fanatic atmosphere of Nitria, where every nerve of soul and body was kept on a life-long artificial strain, without rest, without simplicity, without human affection, was utterly antipodal to the government of the remote and needy, though no less industrious commonwealths of Coenobites, who dotted the lonely mountain-glens, far up into the heart of the Nubian desert.

In such a one Philammon had received, from a venerable man, a mother's sympathy as well as a father's care; and now he yearned for the encouragement of a gentle voice, for the greeting of a kindly eye, and was lonely and sick at heart....

And still Hypatia's voice haunted his ears, like a strain of music, and would not die away.

That lofty enthusiasm, so sweet and modest in its grandeur--that tone of pity--in one so lovely it could not be called contempt--for the many; that delicious phantom of being an elect spirit, unlike the crowd....

'And am I altogether like the crowd ?' said Philammon to himself, as he staggered along under the weight of a groaning fever-patient.