The tears rose to the clergyman's eyes; he tried to wink them away, then he tried to brush them away with a quick rub of his fingers, then he sprang up and walked to the window, his back to Harry. Directly he was facing the young man again, and speaking. “You must excuse me, Mr. Lossing; since my sickness a little thing upsets me.” “Mr. Gilling had diphtheria last spring,” the dean struck in, “there was an epidemic of diphtheria, in Matin's Junction; Mr. Gilling really saved the place; but his wife and he both contracted the disease, and his wife nearly died.” Harry remembered some story that he had heard at the time--his eyes began to light up as they do when he is moved. “Why, YOU are the man that made them disinfect their houses,” cried he, “and invented a little oven or something to steam mattresses and things. You are the man that nursed them and buried them when the undertaker died. You digged graves with your own hands--I say, I should like to shake hands with you!” Gilling shook hands, submissively, but looking bewildered. He cleared his throat. “Would you mind, Mr. Lossing, if I took up your time so far as to tell you what so overcame me?” “I should be glad----” “You see, sir, my wife was the daughter of the Episcopal minister--I mean the rector, at the town--well, it wasn't a town, it was two or three towns off in Shelby County where I had my circuit. You may be surprised, sir, to know that I was once a Methodist minister.” “Is it possible?” said Harry. “Yes, sir. Her father--my wife's, I mean--was about as high a churchman as he could be, and be married. He induced me to join our communion; and very soon after I was married. I hope, Mr. Lossing, you'll come and see us some time, and see my wife. She--are you married?” “I am not so fortunate.”