comfort him in the years to come. When he went out into the city again
the sun was shining. He did not go home. He did not see the woman--his
wife--again. He has never seen her since that night when she stood up in
her dishevelled beauty and _laughed_ at him. Even the divorce
proceedings did not bring them together. I believe that he treated her
fairly. Through his attorneys he turned over to her a half of what he
possessed. Then he went away. That was a year ago. In that year I know
that he has fought desperately to bring himself back into his old health
of mind and body, and I am quite sure that he has failed."

He paused, his story finished. He drew the brim of his hat lower over
his eyes, and then he rose to his feet. His build was slim and
clean-cut. He was perhaps five feet ten inches in height, which was four
inches taller than the Little Missioner. His shoulders were of good
breadth, his waist and hips of an athletic slimness. But his clothes
hung with a certain looseness. His hands were unnaturally thin, and in
his face still hovered the shadows of sickness and of mental suffering.

Father Roland stood beside him now with eyes that shone with a deep
understanding. Under the sputter of the lamp above their heads the two
men clasped hands, and the Little Missioner's grip was like the grip of
iron.

"David, I've preached a strange code through the wilderness for many a
long year," he said, and his voice was vibrant with a strong emotion.
"I'm not Catholic and I'm not Church of England. I've got no religion
that wears a name. I'm simply Father Roland, and all these years I've
helped to bury the dead in the forest, an' nurse the sick, an' marry the
living, an' it may be that I've learned one thing better than most of
you who live down in civilization. And that's how to find yourself when
you're down an' out. Boy, will you come with me?"

Their eyes met. A fiercer gust of the storm beat against the windows.
They could hear the wind wailing in the trees outside.

"It was your story that you told me," said Father Roland, his voice
barely above a whisper. "She was your wife, David?"

It was very still for a few moments. Then came the reply: "Yes, she was
my wife...."

Suddenly David freed his hand from the Little Missioner's clasp. He had
stopped something that was almost like a cry on his lips. He pulled his
hat still lower over his eyes and went through the door out into the
main part of the coach.

Father Ro