So he tries the world, tries all its ways, its intellect, and art; and at last, when everything else fails, he tries love. Surely love will not offend; and he looks upward to _The Form_ at his side for approval. But its face is as the face of the headsman, who shoulders the axe to make an end. Love? Asking for love, when He so loved the world as to give His only beloved Son to die for love. Then lost and bewildered, and weary to death, the youth cowers deprecatingly, and prays that at least he may not know all is lost; that he may go on, and on, still hoping 'one eve to reach the better land.'" And the minister's eyes were full of tears, and his voice was full of despair, and there was a moment's intense silence. Harry broke it. "Surely, sir," he said, "the poet did not leave the youth in such hopeless distress?" "He knew his God better," was the answer. "I will tell you in the youth's own words what happened: 'Then did _The Form_ expand, expand-- I knew Him thro' the dread disguise, As the whole God within his eyes Embraced me!'" "If you are not tired of Browning," said the Professor, in a singularly soft voice for him, "I will give you from him a picture of the world in the highest mood it has ever known, or perhaps ever will know--under the Cross. It is only the 'Epitaph in the Catacombs': 'I was born sickly, poor, and mean, A slave; no misery could screen The holders of the pearl of price From Cæsar's envy; therefore twice I fought with beasts, and three times saw My children suffer by his law; At last my own release was earned; I was some time in being burned, But at the close a hand came through The fire above my head; and drew My soul to Christ; whom now I see. Sergius, a brother, writes for me, This testimony on the wall: For me, I have forgot it all.' Could any picture be more perfect? Christ has made of the poor sick slave a hero; and he speaks dispassionately from the other side. At last his release was earned. He was some time in being burned. Sergius writes--it is not he--he has forgot it all. These words light up an infinite picture, and surely the poet, who with one light stroke can smite such a statute from the rock, is a Master crowned, and worthy of our love." Every face was illuminated, every soul expanded, and the Professor, burning with his own enthusiasm, laid down the book. Then Miss Alida, smiling, but yet with tears in her large gray eyes, turned to a pretty young woman who had a roll of music in her lap. "Mrs. Dunreath," she said, "we cannot bear any more of Mr. Browning's strong wine; give us one of your songs of Old Ireland--some that you found in Munster, among the good lay monks and brothers. And the lady lifted her mandolin, and touched a few strings to her strange musical recitative: