Reginald brought the bandage and then stood moodily striking at a beetle with his riding whip.  He was turning away when a hand with a grip of steel was laid on his shoulder and he was forced back to where the beetle lay, a shapeless mass of quivering agony, while a low stern voice exclaimed,—­

“Finish your work!  Even the cannibals do that.”

Reginald wrenched himself free.  “Pshaw!” he said contemptuously, “it’s only a beetle.”  But he did as he was told.

Then he stood silently watching as with swift skilfulness John swathed the horse’s limbs in flannel.  “I guess Sultan misses you, John.  Over at the college livery their fingers are all thumbs.”

“Poor Sultan!” was all John’s answer, as he led the horse into a large paddock thickly strewn with fresh straw.

A night full of stars—­silent and sweet.  John Randolph leaned on the broad gate which opened into the green road where he had lingered in the afternoon.  The thoughts which surged through his brain made sleep impossible, and so, lighting his bull’s-eye, he had gone to the stables to see how Sultan was faring, and then wandered on under the mystery of the stars.

The night was warm.  A breeze heavy with perfume lifted the hair from his brow.  He heard the low breathing of the cattle as they dozed in the fields on either side, and the soft whirr of downy plumage as the great owl which had built its nest among the eaves of the new barn flew past him.  Suddenly a warm nose was thrust against his shoulder and, with the assurance of a spoilt beauty, the cow laid her head upon his arm.  He lifted his other hand and stroked it gently.

“Hah, Primrose!  Are you awake, old lady?  What are your views of life now, Prim?  Do the shadows make it seem more weird and grand, or does midnight lose its awesomeness when one is upon four legs?”

He looked away to where the stars were throbbing with tender light, crimson and green and gold, and the words of the book which he had been studying every leisure moment for the past six weeks swept across his mental vision.

“’I am the light of the world:  he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life.’

“‘The light of life,’” he repeated slowly.  “Why, to most people life seems all darkness!  What is ’the light of life’?”

Still other words came stealing to his memory.  ’I am the way, the truth, and the life, no one cometh unto the Father, but by me.’  ’Except ye turn, and become as little children, ye shall in no wise enter into the kingdom of heaven.’  ’This is life eternal, that they should know thee the only true God, and him whom thou didst send, even Jesus.’

A great light flooded John Randolph’s soul.

“‘I’ and ‘me,’” he whispered.  “Why, it is a personality.  It is Jesus himself!  He is the way to the kingdom, the truth of the kingdom and the life of it.  The kingdom of heaven, not far away in space, but set up here and now in the hearts of men who live the life hid with Christ in God.  I see it all!  Jesus Christ is the light of the life which God gives us through his Son.”