Then if there was nothing in the present that could satisfy his soul, might he not presume that there was a future for which it was specially created and intended? Yes, there might be something to live for after all--there might be a career in which to win more than fame and more than honour--which at any rate should satisfy those longings and aspirations here, and might be the portal to such a glorious hereafter as he could not even picture to his world-wearied imagination--and if so, what scheme so probable, what religion so well supported by historical proof and logical deduction, as that which he had learnt at his mother’s knee? One by one, thoughts came back to him that had lain dormant for more than thirty years; one by one he recalled the miraculous facts, the touching sufferings that had awed his boyish imagination and moved his boyish heart. For the first time for more than thirty years, he thought as a reality of the Great Example who never quailed nor flinched, nor shrank one jot from His superhuman task. Did he admire courage? There was One who had faced the legions of hell, unaided and alone, with but human limbs and a human heart to support Him through the dread encounter. Did he admire constancy? There was One who voluntarily endured the obloquy of the world, the agonies of the most painful death, and moved not an eyelash in complaint or reproach. Did he admire self-denial--that most heroic of all heroism? What had that One given up to walk afoot through this miserable world, with such a prospect as the close of His earthly career!--and for whom?--even for him amongst the rest--for him who till this very moment had never thanked Him, never acknowledged Him, never so much as thought of Him. The strong man’s heart was touched, the well was unsealed in the desert, and, as the tears gushed from his unaccustomed eyes, Gaston D’Orville bent the knees that had not bent for half a lifetime; and can we doubt that he was forgiven? * * * * *