He came to us a year ago pale and weary and worn with a stubble of beard and a bloodshot eye and clothes that were dirty and torn.

He had knocked around the countryside for weeks and months on end drinking cheap wine sleeping in ditches with nobody he could call "friend."

With the stars, the moon, the grass, the trees to converse with. When things got longly he dragged his crippled legs around and asked for peace of mind only.

In this state of mind we found him his eyesgre moist and dim I put out my hand; he took it. He sensed our love for him.

Someone asked, "We don't understand -- are you your brother's keeper?"

Said I with a smile, "Yes, I am," and walked on without going any deeper.