Christ— The Christ often heard of, but doubted before. Maurice spoke no word of religion. Of yore His heart had accepted the creeds of his youth Without pausing to cavil, or question their truth. Faith seemed his inheritance. But, with the blow Which slew love and killed friendship, faith, too, seemed to go. 

 It is easy to be optimistic in pleasure, But when Pain stands us up by her portal to measure The actual height of our trust and belief, Ah! then is the time when our faith comes to grief. The woes of our fellows, God sends them, 'tis plain; But the devil himself is the cause of our pain. We question the wisdom that rules o'er the world, And our minds into chaos and darkness are hurled. 

 The average scoffer at faith goes about Pouring into the ears of his fellows each doubt Which assails him. One truth he fails wholly to heed; That a doubt oft repeated may bore like a creed. 

 Maurice kept his thoughts to himself, but his pen Was dipped in the gall of his heart now and then, And his muse was the mouthpiece. The sin unforgiven I hold by the Cherubim chanting in heaven Is the sin of the poet who dares sing a strain Which adds to the world's awful chorus of pain And repinings. The souls whom the gods bless at birth With the great gift of song, have been sent to the earth To better and brighten it. Woe to the heart Which lets its own sorrow embitter its art. Unto him shall more sorrow be given; and life After life filled with sorrow, till, spent with the strife, He shall cease from rebellion, and bow to the rod In submission, and own and acknowledge his God. 

 Maurice, with his unwilling muse in the gloom Of a mood pessimistic, was shut in his room. A whistle, a step on the stairway, a knock, Then over the transom there fluttered a flock Of white letters. The Muse, with a sigh of content, Left the poet to read them, and hurriedly went Back to pleasanter regions.  Maurice glanced them through: There were brief business epistles from two Daily papers, soliciting work from his pen; A woman begged money for Christ's sake; three men Asked employment; a mother wrote only to say How she blessed him and prayed God to bless him each day For his kindness to her and to hers; and the last Was a letter from Ruth. The pale ghost of the past Rose out of its poor shallow grave, with the scent And the mold of the clay clinging to it, and leant O'er Maurice as he read, while its breath fanned his cheek. 

 "Forgive me," wrote Ruth; "for at last I must speak Of the two whom you wish to forget. Well I know How you 

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