o the hands, somehow or other, of an old Jew
rags-old-iron man." He was silent for a moment, and the expression of
tenderness spread over his whole face. "He was a good sort--that old
kike. He fed me as well as he could--which wasn't very well--and taught
me to write and figure and read--good books too. I knew the Public
Library better than you know your own house. He didn't just make me read
books--he made me like them. He'd come from Russia where he couldn't get
them, and he knew what books were. What your Church and brother and
friends and home are to you, books were to old Zbysko. He taught me to
love them, too. He did lots of things for me when doing things wasn't
easy. And he gave me the only name I ever had."

"Your name? I don't understand."

"Yes, the old chap was a great believer in patent medicines. He honestly
thought the men who made them were philanthropists. He gave me the name
of one of them." He laughed reminiscently. "I suppose I have one of the
best known names in the world! I see it everywhere."

"And the old man...?"

"They didn't _call_ it starvation--doctors never do name things right. I
think I was about thirteen then. They tried to send me to an
institution, but I ran away. I've shifted for myself since."

He lapsed into silence, and Judith could get no more out of him that
day. He was too obviously busy with his memories.

One Sunday morning, about a month or so after the accident, Judith was
struck by a whimsical idea. She broached it to her guest immediately.

"Mr. Good," she said at breakfast, "I have a favour to ask of you...."

"It's granted already," he said gallantly.

"Wait--it may not prove so easy. I know you don't care for church-going,
but I want you to go with me--this morning."

He looked dejected. "I should be delighted--honestly. But look--" He
indicated his old brown suit, which in spite of the constant and earnest
endeavours of Roger's valet, still looked indisputably shabby.

"No matter. We'll go late and sit in the back and nobody will see us.
But here's the real favour. There's to be a clergyman out from the
city, this morning, who is a friend of mine. Arnold Imrie is to preach,
and ..."

"Is Arnold coming?" broke in Roger. "By George, I'll go myself. He's a
wonder."

"That's what I wanted to find out," said Judith. "That is, I want to
find out if _you_ think so, Mr. Good. The people here think just that.
I want to get your opinion."

"That's hardly fair, i