What need now to rack his soul in following the dim-seen, ever evanishing paths of metaphysics! he had but to obey the prophet of life, the man whose being and doing and teaching were blended in one three-fold harmony, or rather, were the three-fold analysis of one white essence--he had but to obey him, haunt his footsteps, and hearken after the sound of his spirit, and all truth would in healthy process be unfolded in himself. What philosophy could carry him where Jesus would carry his obedient friends--into his own peace, namely, far above all fear and all hate, where his soul should breathe such a high atmosphere of strength at once and repose, that he should love even his enemies, and that with no such love as condescendingly overlooks, but with the real, hearty, and self-involved affection that would die to give them the true life! Alas! how far was he from such perfection now--from such a martyrdom, lovely as endless, in the consuming fire of God! And at the thought, he fell from the heights of his contemplation--but was caught in the thicket of prayer. By the time he reached his lodging, the glow had vanished, but the mood remained. He sat down and wrote the first sketch of the following verses, then found that his sermon had again drawn nigh, and was within the reach of his spiritual tentacles. Father, I cry to thee for bread, With hungered longing, eager prayer; Thou hear’st, and givest me instead More hunger and a half-despair. O Lord, how long? My days decline; My youth is lapped in memories old; I need not bread alone, but wine-- See, cup and hand to thee I hold. And yet thou givest: thanks, O Lord, That still my heart with hunger faints! The day will come when at thy board I sit forgetting all my plaints. If rain must come and winds must blow, And I pore long o’er dim-seen chart, Yet, Lord, let not the hunger go, And keep the faintness at my heart. CHAPTER XXXIV. A SERMON TO LEOPOLD. When the curate stood up to read, his eyes as of themselves sought Mrs. Ramshorn’s pew. There sat Helen, with a look that revealed, he thought, more of determination and less of suffering. Her aunt was by her side, cold and glaring, an ecclesiastical puss, ready to spring upon any small church-mouse that dared squeak in its own murine way. Bascombe was not visible, and that was a relief. For an unbelieving face, whether the dull dining countenance of a mayor, or the keen searching countenance of a barrister, is a sad bone in the throat of utterance, and has to be of set will passed over, and, if that may be, forgotten. Wingfold tried hard to forget Mrs. Ramshorn’s, and one or two besides, and by the time he came to the sermon, thought of nothing but human hearts, their agonies, and him who came to call them to him. “I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.”