The next morning I had my baggage on the stage, this time for a return. Bill, with his wooden leg, greeted me, for by this time we were old friends. The word of parting was given at the post-office, and the democrat rattled down the grade and over the bridge. This time a continuous flutter of handkerchiefs and aprons, and a continuous hearty shout from the men and boys, followed our passage through the two villages and then we drove into the dusk of the road through the blueberry barrens, Bill aiming expectoration at every soap sign within reach, and confiding in me, on the way, the fact that he had loved once and “lost,” which he seemed to take in a very philosophical mood, for he concluded with this phrase, “You can’t get the hang of wimmen, anyhow!” _Chapter XXVI. The Strange Adventure of Burner into Nothing, and How my Own Mind Got into Trouble, and How my Faith was Strengthened under the Chapel Window_ On my return to the Seminary I found Burner in the throes of intellectual despair. The big fellow was sitting in his room, half buried in the depths of the green Morris chair, his bony fingers prodded into his working brows. “What’s wrong, Burner?” I demanded. “I’ve been thinking back too far,” announced the serious fellow. “Thinking back too far?” I gasped. “Yes,” he muttered. “I’ve nothing to stand on, now.” “What do you mean?” “I’ve thought away all substance--now!” he moaned, in despair. “I can’t even conceive a God!” “Burner!” “Horrible, isn’t it, Priddy?” “What do you mean--explain, so that I can get this thing by its head,” I suggested. Burner seriously gathered himself together in his chair, sipped from a glass of water, and then began, “Probably I do too much thinking; maybe that’s what’s the matter, Priddy. When I left here, last June, and went out for the summer, I began to try to think through substance; I thought I might do it, sometime. I got to thinking about it, when I took my walks over the hills, and kept thinking about it, but, somehow, I couldn’t get my thought back of the material. When I got back here, last week, I was sitting in this chair, when all of a sudden I did think back of God; and conceived all reality as being so immaterial that nothing exists: no, nothing!” he shouted, “not even--God!” “Can’t you think back again--to him?” I demanded, making an effort to be of some assistance and comfort to the disconsolate man. Burner stood on his feet, and paced the floor, excitedly, and said as he gestured with his hands, “I’ve got to be honest--with truth, no matter how far it leads me!” “Yes!” “Just think how horrible it is; I’ve thought back till I’ve struck nothing--nothing!” “Come, it’s not so bad as that, Burner, is it?” “I shan’t be able to preach, to study, to believe anything!” he declared. “How can I when there is nothing to preach, to study, or to believe?” I could not conceive a more pathetic restraint on a man who sought to get his living by preaching and study.