John Fenton strode down the avenue after breakfast, one of the best-dressed men abroad at that early hour. The last few months had made a great change in his outward appearance. Somewhat to his surprise, he had found that by refraining from alcoholic self-indulgence he had not only gained in nervous energy, but had reaped a fat financial harvest. Renewing his youth in more ways than one, he had expended at his tailor’s money that, under his former habits of life, would have gone to swell a saloon’s growing surplus. He had been noted in the old days for his good taste in dress, and his years of carelessness had not destroyed his natural ability to select attire that was at once fashionable and becoming. With a clean-shaven face, a glow on his cheeks, and the light of physical contentment in his eyes, John Fenton looked positively handsome as he entered Richard Stoughton’s rooms, and found his young friend, _en négligé_, smoking a pipe, and perusing, with a sense of self-satisfaction that age cannot wither nor custom stale, his work of the previous day as it appeared in print in that morning’s edition of the _Trumpet_. “What is it I see before me?” cried Richard, springing up, and holding out his hand to his guest. “Upon what meat doth this, our Cæsar, feed, that he gets up and out before noon?” Fenton seated himself, and lighted a cigar. “Do you know, my boy,” he remarked quietly, “I have spent the night in a sleepless vigil, pondering the error of your ways. I have become convinced that it is absolutely imperative that you should be given an antidote for last night’s poison.” “I did smoke too much, I acknowledge,” returned Richard densely; “but I have drunk several cups of coffee this morning, and feel much better.” “Flippant youngster! have you no reverence in your make-up? I referred not to the cigars, but to the _tout ensemble_.” “Is that her name, John? It’s a queer one, you must admit. But, seriously, what are you driving at? Here you are at ten o’clock on Sunday morning--an hour that has for years, as you have told me, found you sound asleep--abroad in the land, dressed with the most extreme care, and delivering sermons gratis to your friends. I acknowledge that there is a mystery here that I cannot solve.” “It is simple enough, Richard. I have come to an important decision, and I am about to take a step in which I want your companionship and sympathy.” There was a solemnity in Fenton’s manner that caused Richard to look at him with mingled curiosity and surprise. “Of course, John, I’ll give you all the help I can. But frankly, now, what are you going to do?” Fenton puffed in silence for a moment, gazing earnestly at his companion. “What am I going to do, Richard? I’m going to church.” Richard laughed merrily.