e almost like having God answer
them, thus to receive advice and consolation, as it were, out of the
void.

They crossed the river, and after twenty minutes entered the street
where was the Chapel of Mary of Compassion. Sophy felt herself advancing
into the perspective of this hideous street with a shudder. It was as
if she were being willingly driven into a wedge of gloomy brick from
which somehow she would not be able to withdraw. On each side squatted
the low houses, odiously alike. The toy-bricks of a gaoler's child must
be fashioned like these houses. A smell of hot tallow and refuse was in
the air, mingled with that omnipresent scent of malt that was here
stronger and more sweetish acrid than ever.

The chapel itself was not very different from the other houses. It
seemed like one of a large family that has been better nourished and
dedicated to religion. The shape of its roof and doorway was the
equivalent of a priestly habit.

Sophy's heart failed within her. Somehow this street, this chapel,
seemed reality--all else illusion.

Then she entered. The little chapel was empty and very still. There was
a smell of stale incense in the air. She could see the high altar, very
simple. A man was kneeling before it. He rose as Sophy entered, and came
towards her. He was a tall man, clad in a plain black soutane. He came
and stood near, looking at her gravely.

"What can I do for you?" he asked.

"I would like...." faltered Sophy. "... If I might speak with Father
Raphael of the Poor...?" she ended.

"I am Father Raphael," he said. He had a beautiful, deep, tranquil
voice. Sophy's mind was beginning to be confused. All sorts of fantasies
whirled through it. She imagined that this voice indicated a tragedy far
back in the priest's life. That he had suffered in some deeply human
way. The church was dim. She could not see his face clearly, but his
hair shone out almost white from the shadows. His eyebrows were thick
and black.

"I am Father Raphael," he said again. "Will you come this way with me,
my daughter?"

He thought her a Catholic, of course; but at the words, "my daughter,"
spoken in that lovely voice, it seemed to Sophy that a band snapped
about her heart, releasing it. It was as if some benign, paternal angel
had troubled the pool of tears, far down among the very roots of her
being.

She followed him silently, and from her eyes there welled great, slow
drops--hot and heavy, like drops of blood from th