"Yes," was the reply, after a moment's silence, "mine has been a heavy cross. A little more than a year ago my son, just entering upon the summer vacation, went off with two friends on a yachting trip. They were near Land's End when a hurricane struck and wrecked the boat; they were all lost, the yacht never having been seen again; and once this afternoon, when the door of your secretary's room was opened for a moment, I heard his delirious cry, and his voice sounded strangely like that of my own lost boy. Possibly, I, too, should have gone up to see him, but after that I could not--I could not." He paused and then added: "O, it was my profoundest wish that Eddie might some day take my place, and be the comfort of my old age." That evening's sermon will never be forgotten by the large congregation which came to hear the eminent English divine. "Thou destroyest the hopes of man" was the text. Two days later the Bishop of Durham returned to his home, and although he had enjoyed seeing the classmate of his early years, the affliction in Bishop Albertson's home had reminded him of his own sad loss, so that when he arrived at Durham he felt prostrated by the renewal of his bitter bereavement. CHAPTER IV SLOW CONVALESCENCE The new nurse would not permit even Tom to enter the sick man's room, so he waylaid the doctor at every visit, and, stern as he was, that professional gentleman was compelled through sheer sympathy to speak as encouragingly as possible to the lad. Every morning Tom brought from the garden a handful of flowers and, tapping gently at the sick man's door, handed them to the nurse, who, giving him a more hopeful word concerning the patient, would send him with light heart downstairs to his mother to report the good news. One morning the boy brought a bunch of roses and violets, and gave them to Enoch, the nurse, who received them with greater cordiality than usual, remarking as he accepted the flowers: "Mr. Carl is much better. You shall see him tomorrow." The joyous-hearted boy bounded downstairs and, throwing his arms around his mother's neck, repeated the words of the nurse. Enoch met Tom in the hall next day. The lad was dressed in his best clothes and was nervously impatient. "Now Tom," said Enoch, "promise me that you will not talk, and you must not cry, and, remember, you can only stay ten minutes." "All right! I'll promise anything, only let me see my Carl." But Enoch's patience was tried at the very start. Tom tiptoed into the room, and as he saw the pale smiling face of Carl and heard his welcome he threw his arms around the sick man's neck, and sobbed through his tears: "Carl, my Carl, you're nearly well, aren't you?" Enoch, standing near the bed, placed his finger upon his lips, but Tom did not recognize his admonition, and kept on giving expression to his happiness. "Carl," said he, "God has given you back to us. I told mother that he would, and he has."