"'Father, if it be possible...' 'The Lord, Who hath redeemed us from all evil, bless the lad...' 'Lord of All power and might...' 'Master...'"--it was in broken phrases that he prayed. It was, indeed, a prayer not truly of words at all. Mr. Kestern, stricken as he had never dreamed he could be stricken, flung his racked and aching soul at the feet of his God. And it was all so still: the silent dance of the shadows, the silent existing of the heavy curtains and old-fashioned furniture, the silent, broken man. It was still outside in the suburban street, dank and unlovely in the dull December evening. It was still high up where the lowering clouds, heavy with snow that year, hid the moon. And God on His throne sat still. "Oh, my God, spare me this thing.... Thou knowest.... Let not Satan triumph over me.... The boy is Thine--given, dedicated, bought;--save Thou my son, my only son. Yet not my will, but Thine be done.... Ah, but it cannot be Thy will--this deceit, this lie! O God of Truth, open his eyes that he may see wondrous things out of Thy Word...." Knives, lances--each broken sentence was one such. And truly Mr. Kestern would have counted his heart's blood a light offering if thereby he might have saved his son. His heart's blood! He was offering even more as he knelt there now. His faith and love were breaking his soul upon the wheel, and not one blow would he spare himself. And within, without, above, silences, interwoven silences, a veil--inscrutable. But God must be made to hear... "'Father, if it be possible....'" The handle of the door turned, futilely since the door was locked. Mr. Kestern rose slowly, and opened it. Mrs. Kestern came in. "Father!" she exclaimed. "Your fire's nearly out! And no gas? Whatever-- Oh, father dear, what is it? How long have you been here alone? Why didn't you call me in? Let me light the gas for you." She walked over and lit the yellow jet, turning again to the man who stood, silent and motionless, by the table. Her eyes took in the drawn face, the haggard brow, even the signs of a man's difficult tears. She moved swiftly to him. "Father!" she cried again, "what is it? Has anything happened to Paul?" One hand reached up to his shoulder and the other was pressed hard on her heart. "No, no, Clara," said the man. "He's written, that's all. In advance of his coming, I suppose, so as to prepare us. You had better read what he says." His wife detected the bitter, hopeless pain that underlay the words. Her glance, too, read aright the open drawer and the disordered papers. Mechanically she reached out for the letter. "He's still our boy," she cried, inconsequently. The old Puritan straightened himself. "A son of mine a Roman Catholic!" he cried. "What is my sin that God should bring this upon me? Would God he had died first!"