“Their pale faces look through the glass; no curtains can shut them out. Their thin fingers tap and entreat.... And I have closed my heart at that door and cannot open it to let them in.... There is the face of a dog who has suffered––his teeth are white, but his eyes are glazed and his tongue hangs out.... There is a rose with drenched petals––a rose whom I forgot. See how the wind has battered it.... The sorrows of the world!... There come the souls from under the earth, crying for one to release them and let them go––souls that all men have forgotten, and I, the chief of sinners.... I have lived too much in the sweetness of God and forgotten His sorrows.” Then he turned to a crucifix of ebony and silver that hung on the wall at his side, and looked on it silently. And then again he broke into compassionate prayer to the Saviour of the world, entreating Him by His Agony and Bloody Sweat, by His Cross and Passion, to remember all suffering things. That prayer that I heard gave me a glimpse into mysteries of which I had not dreamed; mysteries of the unity of Christ and His members, a unity of pain. These great facts, which I thank God I know more of now, stood out in fiery lines against the dark sorrow that seemed to have filled the room from this old man’s heart. Then suddenly he turned to me, and his eyes so searched my own that I looked down, while his words lashed me. “You, my son,” he said, “what have you done to help our Lord and His children? Have you watched or slept? Couldst thou not watch with me one hour? What share have you borne in the Incarnation? Have you believed for those who could not believe, hoped for the despairing, loved and adored for the cold? And if you could not understand nor do this, have you at least welcomed pain that would have made you one with them? Have you even pitied them? Or have you hidden your face for fear you should grieve too much? But what am I that I should find fault?” Then he broke off again into self-reproach. At this point Parker bent over me and whispered: “He will die, sir, I think, unless you can get him to be quiet.” The old man overheard, and turned almost fiercely. “Quiet?” he cried, “when the world is so unquiet! Can I rest, do you think, with those at my window?” Then, with a loud cry, “Ah! they are in the room! They look at me from the air! I cannot bear it.” And he covered his face with his old thin hands, and shrank back against the wall.