The whole mental condition was nothing worse than the blossom of the dream of his childhood--the dream of being _the_ benefactor of his race, of being loved and worshiped for his kindness.

But the poison of the dream had grown more active in its blossom.

Since then the credit of goodness with himself had gathered sway over his spirit; and stoical pride in goodness is a far worse and lower thing than delight in the thanks of our fellows.

He was a mere slave to his own ideal, and that ideal was not brother to the angel that beholds the face of the Father.

Now he had taken a backward step in time, but a forward step in his real history, for again another than himself had a part in his dream.