His chief comfort was the entire and unexpected devotion of old John Cooper. He obeyed Guy loyally, but he also watched over him like a father. He had a careful old wife, who sent him in cups of tea, and provided him with luncheons, and this care he contrived should be extended to the young man too. He worked hard, so as to save him exertion, and never resented the quick, sharp orders, or the short, absent manner, and Guy was grateful--more grateful than he knew how to show. The old manager's devotion helped him very much. There was Rawdie, also, whom he had begged of Godfrey, who slept on his bed and nestled at his side, and was a living presence, and a loving one too. If the demands of the business upon him saved his wits, it strained them to the utmost. It was touch and go with Palmer Brothers, all through the winter, and if Guy had not been as clever as he was desperate, they must have gone under. It was just a case of holding on. If that had been all, he could hardly have borne it. But such anxiety was swept out of his mind by the other thoughts that thronged upon him. He could not sleep, so he read half the night--medicine and science, metaphysics and religion, magic and mysticism, demonology and witchcraft, theories of heredity and legends of possession, psychical researches and spiritual revelations. And then it struck him that the Bible might throw some light on the subject. He had learned "divinity," and frequently heard and occasionally read the lessons, like other well-brought-up young men; but he had never read it with any personal object. He came to the conclusion that Saint Paul knew something about the matter. "Resisting unto death--striving against sin," exactly expressed it. And sometimes the foe pressed hard and home--and then there were perilous moments for reason's sway. Guy looked the haunting terror in the face. He took its likeness--"wrote it down," as he had said--spoke to it--defied it--well, those were times better forgotten, and when Rawdie hung on to his trousers and pulled him back, he knew that he was making a mad rush at-- nothing at all. But more and more the conviction strengthened, that whatever personal influences shaped the forms of his experience, behind it lay a "power outside himself that made for" _evil_, a power at one with all the evil of the world. Where, then, was the power that makes for good? He sat alone one evening by the study fire, and asked this question in vain. Could he hold on any longer? He was so lonely, and the weather was so cold, it took away all his little strength. Godfrey was not coming home for Christmas. Nerves and brain would endure no longer the solitude--that was _not_ solitude. He put his hand over his eyes.