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The results of this work, you will allow, benefit humanity." "Enormously," assented the Father, thinking of more than one of Guildea's discoveries. "And the benefit conferred by this work, undertaken merely for its own sake, is just as great as if it were undertaken because I loved my fellow man and sentimentally desired to see him more comfortable than he is at present.

The eyes themselves looked excited and horribly forlorn. His hair and dress were disordered and his lips twitched continually, as if he were shaken by some acute nervous apprehension. "What has become of Pitting?" asked the Father, grasping Guildea's hot and feverish hand. "He has left my service." "Left your service!" exclaimed the Father in utter amazement. "Yes, this afternoon."

Then, breaking from him, the Father hurried towards the bench, bitterly vexed at the interruption. When he reached it nothing was there. Guildea's experience had been almost exactly repeated and, filled with unreasonable disappointment, the Father returned to the house, entered it, shut the door and hastened up the narrow stairway into the library.

On the following morning Guildea left London. Father Murchison was so busy a man that he had little time for brooding over the affairs of others. During Guildea's week at the sea, however, the Father thought about him a great deal, with much wonder and some dismay.

The Father was greatly moved by the strange helplessness and despair of the attitude. He laid his hand affectionately on Guildea's shoulder. "Then?" Guildea lifted his head. He looked painfully abashed. "Then, Murchison, I am ashamed to say I broke down, suddenly, unaccountably, in a way I should have thought wholly impossible to me. I struck out with my hands to thrust the thing away.

He could not so he now told himself accept the idea that his friend was being supernaturally punished for his lack of humanity, his deficiency in affection, by being obliged to endure the love of some horrible thing, which could not be seen, heard, or handled. Nevertheless, retribution did certainly seem to wait upon Guildea's condition.

A fire was burning on the hearth. The blue curtains were drawn. The bright gleam of the strong electric light fell on the long rows of books, on the writing table, very orderly in consequence of Guildea's holiday and on the uncovered cage of the parrot. Guildea went up to the cage. Napoleon was sitting humped up on his perch with his feathers ruffled.

The Father feared that he was going to collapse and faint, but suddenly he raised himself upon his chair and said, in a high and keen voice, full of suppressed excitement: "Murchison, Murchison!" "Yes. What is it?" An amazing ecstasy shone in Guildea's eyes. "It wants to leave me," he cried. "It wants to go! Don't lose a moment! Let it out! The window the window!"

But first I must do one thing." "And that is?" "Prove to you, as well as to myself, that it is still there." "That might be difficult," said the Father, considerably surprised by Guildea's matter-of-fact tone. "I don't know. If it has remained in my house I think I can find a means. And I shall not be at all surprised if it is still there despite the Westgate air."

"Are you?" replied the Father gently, looking at him with interest. "No, I think not. You appear very well." The sea air had, in fact, put some brownish red into Guildea's always thin cheeks.