Frithiof thought of those words which had involuntarily escaped his companion after the remark of the passer-by in Piccadilly—“No matter!—I do not sing for a gossiping world.” He began to understand Donati better—he longed with an intensity of longing to be able to look at life with such eyes as his. “These things are so real to you,” he said quickly. “But to me they are only a hope—or, if for an hour or two real, they fade away again. It may be all very well for you in your successful happy life, but it is impossible for me with everything against me.” “Impossible!” exclaimed Donati, his eyes flashing, and with something in his tone which conveyed volumes to the Norwegian. “If not impossible at any rate very difficult,” he replied. “Yes, yes,” said Donati, his eyes full of sympathy. “It is that to all of us. Don’t think I make light of your difficulties. It is hard to seek God in uncongenial surroundings, in a life harassed and misunderstood, and in apparent failure. But—don’t let the hardness daunt you—just go on.” The words were commonplace enough, but they were full of a wonderful power because there lurked beneath them the assurance— “I have been through where ye must go; I have seen past the agony.” “Do you know,” said Frithiof, smiling, “that is almost what you said to me the first time I saw you. You have forgotten it, but a year ago you said a few words to me which kept me from making an end of myself in a fit of despair. Do you remember coming to the shop about a song of Knight’s?” “Why yes,” said Donati. “Was that really you? It all comes back to me now—I remember you found the song for me though I had only the merest scrap of it, without the composer’s name.” “It was just before my illness,” said Frithiof. “I never forgot you, and recognized you the moment I saw you to-night. Somehow you saved my life then just by giving me a hope.” Perhaps no greater contrast could have been found than these two men who, by what seemed a mere chance, had been thrown together so strangely. But Donati almost always attracted to himself men of an opposite type; as a rule it was not the religious public that understood him or appreciated him best, it was the men of the world, and those with whom he came in contact in his professional life. To them his character appealed in a wonderful way, and many who would have been ashamed to show any enthusiasm as a rule, made an exception in favor of this man, who had somehow fascinated them and compelled them into a belief in goodness little in accord with the cynical creed they professed.