Burned Bridges

"I don't look like a minister," he muttered. "I look like a man who has

been drunk. I feel like that. There must be a devil in me."

He had brought with him from Lone Moose a small bag. Out of this he now

took paper, envelopes, a fountain pen, changed his seat to the edge of

the bed, and using the stool for a desk began to write. When he had

covered two sheets he folded them over the green slip he had that day

received, and slid the whole into an envelope which he addressed: Mr. A.H. Markham,

Sec. M.E. Board of Home Missions,

412 Echo St.,

Toronto, Ont.

He laid the letter on the bed and regarded it with an expression in

which regret and relief were equally mingled.

"They'll say--they'll think," he muttered disconnectedly.

He got up, paced across the small room, swung about to look at the

letter again.

"I've got to do it," he said aloud defiantly. "It's the only thing I can

do. Burn all my bridges behind me. If I can't honestly be a minister, I

can at least be a man."