“Ah, my father,” said the young man in a hoarse, croaking whisper, “miracles do not happen.” “The modern authors have declared it thus in their books,” said the white-haired man, his father, “but in the Book of the Ages is it not recorded otherwise?” “Reveal to me the written words, my father, I beseech thee,” said the young man, with the eagerness of one who thirsts. The aged man, his father, lifted the mighty tome from the shelf, and, opening it at a page that contained no writing, placed his finger thereupon. “See, beloved one,” said the aged man, with a meek triumph in his faint eyes, “it is there written.” The young man turned to the passage with the frenzy of one devoured by pangs. “Why, my father,” he cried out, “there is nothing there. The page is empty. It is all dark to my gaze.” “Nay, beloved one,” said his father. “It is written there in sober verity. I have conned the page a thousand times. Look again, beloved one, I beseech thee.” Again the young man traversed the page with his gaunt eyes. “Oh, gentle Zeus,” he cried in a terror that was piteous to behold, “the page is blank; it contains no writing. I am to be cast into the streets of the great city.” The wretched young man sank to his knees in the little room, biting at his nails. XXXI Many hours passed ere the young man dared to meet this great horror that had come into his life. From the dawn of his earliest consciousness this dark shadow had lain in his thoughts. Yet never had they had the resolution to contemplate it. All his life he had seemed to know that such a contingency, should it ever befall, would be beyond his strength to endure. As during this week of mental and moral eclipse he sought to prefigure what an existence upon the earth would mean without that sanctuary for the broken wayfarer, reason itself seemed to decline to accept the alternative. One night in the depths of his despair there crept into his brain a vision of the dark and mighty Thames, that noble symbol upon which he had so often gazed; and had the power of prayer remained to him, he would have sought the resolution to terminate within its cold bosom his vicissitudes upon the earth. In the height, however, of this gross terror, his eyes beheld the aged man, his father, at the other side of the table, that guide and protector and strong hand in his youth. What was his own pass in comparison with that of one so frail and venerable? He himself, by virtue of the youth in his veins, was fitted to cope with the cruel and licentious hordes that thronged the streets of the great city; but this aged man, whose sap was dry, whose vigour had burnt itself out, in what manner could his white hairs accept the last stern decree of Fate?