The days passed on until the convention actually assembled. Philip was feverishly anxious; yet he persistently assured himself that he had no doubt in regard to the result. He felt that the end had been accomplished by the work which had already been done; and the convention itself seemed to him somewhat unreal and unmeaning. It had in his mind not much more than the function of announcing a result which he felt to have been arrived at already in the canvassing of lists of delegates in which he had taken part at Mrs. Wilson's. Until the thing was formally announced, however, it was impossible to be at ease. The first day of the convention was mainly one of organization and of preparation. Business was disposed of and all made ready for the election of the morrow. Philip went into the convention in the hour of recreation. He tried to be interested in matters which he assured himself were of real importance; yet he found his memory dwelling on Maurice and the times they had talked of this convention. Even his efforts to fix his thoughts on the election itself could not drive his friend from his mind. He walked home at last, saying passionately that he had ceased to care for the church, for its welfare, its fate; that he had cared only for his own selfish desires and interests. He looked back upon the convention which he had left, and saw mentally a picture of men who seemed strange and remote, concerned with matters which he did not understand, in which he had no interest. He felt completely out of key with everything; he longed for Maurice with unspeakable pain. He had rested on Maurice. In every mental crisis he had depended upon finding his friend at hand, sympathetic, strong, responsive; he had come to be as one unable to stand alone. It seemed impossible for him to go on longer without seeing his fellow, his friend, his confidant, his support. The convention and the Clergy House alike became misty and accidental in comparison with his own desperate need of Maurice. A couple of blocks from the House he was joined by a fellow deacon. "I say, Ashe," was the other's greeting, "did you ever know anything so unfortunate as that Wilson letter?" Philip turned upon him an uncomprehending face. "What is the Wilson letter?" he inquired absently. "What? Don't you know about it? I saw you at the convention." "I was there a little while; but there was nothing said about a letter, that I heard." "Oh, there has been nothing said about it in the convention, but they say it will turn the scale." "But what is it?" "It's a letter Mrs. Wilson--Mrs. Chauncy Wilson, you know--you must know who she is?" "Yes; I know her." "Well, this is a letter that she wrote to a rector in the western part of the State,--his name was Briggs or Biggs, or something of that kind. She said that if he didn't vote for Father Frontford she could get him out of his parish." "What!" exclaimed Philip. "She couldn't have written such a thing!"