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“Oh, nothing. Only, all at once I realized that he had a sensitive nature. I don’t know why I shouldn’t have realized it before. I had somehow taken it for granted that he was a self-conscious hermit, who lived in a squalid seclusion because he liked being wondered at. But he did not seem to be anything of the kind. I don’t know whether he’s a good cook, for he didn’t ask me to eat anything; but I don’t think he’s a bad housekeeper.”

“With his bed unmade at eight o’clock in the evening!”

“He may have got up late,” said Ewbert. “The house seemed very orderly, otherwise; and what is really the use of making up a bed till you need it!”

Mrs. Ewbert passed the point, and asked, “What did you talk about when you got started?”

“I found he was a reader, or had been. There was a case of good books in the parlor, and I began by talking with him about them.”

“Well, what did he say about them?”

“That he wasn’t interested in them. He had been once, but he was not now.”

“I can understand that,” said Mrs. Ewbert philosophically. “Books are crowded out after your life fills up with other interests.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?” Mrs. Ewbert followed him up.

“So far as I could make out, Mr. Hilbrook’s life hadn’t filled up with other interests. He did not care for the events of the day, as far as I tried him on them, and he did not care for the past. I tempted him with autobiography; but he seemed quite indifferent to his own history, though he was not reticent about it. I proposed the history of his cousin in the boyish days which he said they had spent together; but he seemed no more interested in his cousin than in himself. Then I tried his dog and his pathetic sufferings, and I said something about the pity of the poor old fellow’s last days being so miserable. That seemed to strike a gleam of interest from him, and he asked me if I thought animals might live again. And I found–I don’t know just how to put it so as to give you the right sense of his psychological attitude.”

“No matter! Put it any way, and I will take care of the right sense. Go on!” said Mrs. Ewbert.

“I found that his question led up to the question whether men lived again, and to a confession that he didn’t or couldn’t believe they did.”

“Well, upon my word!” Mrs. Ewbert exclaimed. “I don’t see what business he has coming to church, then. Doesn’t he understand that the idea of immortality is the very essence of Rixonitism! I think it was personally insulting to you, Clarence. What did you say?”

“I didn’t take a very high hand with him. You know I don’t embody the idea of immortality, and the church is no bad place even for unbelievers. The fact is, it struck me as profoundly pathetic. He wasn’t arrogant about it, as people sometimes are,–they seem proud of not believing; but he was sufficiently ignorant in his premises. He said he had seen too many dead people. You know he was in the civil war.”

“No!”

“Yes,–through it all. It came out on my asking him if he were going to the Decoration Day services. He said that the sight of the first great battlefield deprived him of the power of believing in a life hereafter. He was not very explanatory, but as I understood it the overwhelming presence of death had extinguished his faith in immortality; the dead riders were just like their dead horses”–

“Shocking!” Mrs. Ewbert broke in.

“He said something went out of him.” Ewbert waited a moment before adding: “It was very affecting, though Hilbrook himself was as apathetic about it as he was about everything else. He was not interested in not believing, even, but I could see that it had taken the heart out of life for him. If our life here does not mean life elsewhere, the interest of it must end with our activities. When it comes to old age, as it has with poor Hilbrook, it has no meaning at all, unless it has the hope of more life in it. I felt his forlornness, and I strongly wished to help him. I stayed a long time talking; I tried to interest him in the fact that he was not interested, and”–