h a funny sort of laugh
that sounded a bit sad, too, that the Bishop had the Padre buried."

"I see," said Mark, though he didn't see any more than the agent. "But
the priest doesn't take it hard, does he?"

"Not that you could notice," Saunders answered. "The Padre's
jolly--smart, too--and a bookman. He has books enough in that little
house to start a public library, but he's too poor now to buy many of
the kind he's daffy over--old stuff, you know, first editions and the
like."

They crossed the street to the rectory, an old-fashioned house nestling
among the trees, the parapet and pillars of its broad veranda almost
hidden by a heavy growth of ampelopsis. In front of the house, a
stretch of well-kept lawn was divided from the public walk by a
hawthorn hedge, and, cutting through its velvety green, a wide graveled
pathway swept up to the steps whose sharp angle with the veranda was
softened by a mass of low-growing, flowering shrubs. To the side,
extending towards the church, the hedge was tripled, with a space of
some six feet between. The lower branches of the evergreens forming
the second row were scarcely higher than the hawthorn in front; while,
in their turn, the evergreens were barely topped by the silver maples
behind. That triple hedge had been the loving care of the successive
priests for fifty years and served as an effectual bar to the curiosity
of the casual passer-by. In the little yard behind its shelter the
priest could read or doze, free from the intrusive gaze of the village.

Father Murray, who was comfortably reading on the veranda, arose as his
two visitors approached.

Saunders spoke quickly. "Don't worry, Padre. I ain't goin' to get
after you again to sell you another set. I just thought I'd like to
have you meet my friend, Mr. Griffin. I know you'll like him. He's
bookish, too, and an Englishman. Then, I'm off." Suiting the action
to the word, the agent, raising his hat, walked down the graveled path
and down toward the hotel.

Father Murray took Mark's hand with a friendly grip quite different
from the bone-crushing handshake he so often met in America. Mark
gazed thoughtfully at his host. With his thin but kindly face and
commanding presence, the priest seemed almost foreign. What Mark saw
was a tall--he was six feet at least of bone and muscle--and
good-looking man, with an ascetic nose and mouth; with hair, once
black, but now showing traces of white, falling in t