tefully explained.

By chance, on the first soft spring day of that year, the Rev. John
Fithian, returning from the Neighbourhood Settlement, where he had
delighted himself with good deeds, done of pure purpose, came near the
door of the Box Street tenement, distributing smiles, pennies,
impulsive, genuine caresses, to the children as he went, tipping their
faces, patting their heads, all in the rare, unquestioned way, being
not alien to the manner of the poor. A street piano, at the corner,
tinkled an air to which a throng of ragged, lean little girls danced in
the yellow sunshine, dodging trucks and idlers and impatient
pedestrians with unconcern, colliding and tripping with utmost good
nature. The curate was arrested by the voice of a child, singing to
the corner accompaniment--low, in the beginning, brooding, tentative,
but in a moment rising sure and clear and tender. It was not hard for
the Rev. John Fithian to slip a cassock and surplice upon this wistful
child, to give him a background of lofty arches and stained windows, to
frame the whole in shadows. And, lo! in the chancel of the Church of
the Lifted Cross there stood an angel, singing.

The boy looked up, a glance of suspicion, of fear; but he was at once
reassured: there was no guile in the smiling gray eyes of the
questioner.

"I am waiting," he answered, "for my mother. She will be home soon."

In a swift, penetrating glance, darting far and deep, dwelling briefly,
the curate discovered the pathos of the child's life--the unknowing,
patient outlook, the vague sense of pain, the bewilderment, the wistful
melancholy, the hopeful determination.

"You, too!" he sighed.

The expression of kindred was not comprehended; but the boy was not
disquieted by the sigh, by the sudden extinguishment of the beguiling
smile.

"She has gone," he continued, "to the wedding of Sir Arthur Coll and
Miss Stillison. She will have a very good time."

The curate came to himself with a start and a gasp.

"She's a bridesmaid," the boy added.

"Oh!" ejaculated the curate.

"Why do you say, 'Oh!'" the boy complained, frowning. "Everybody says
that," he went on, wistfully; "and I don't know why."

The curate was a gentleman--acute and courteous. "A touch of
indigestion," he answered, promptly, laying a white hand on his black
waistcoat. "Oh! There it is again!"

"Stomach ache?"

"Well, you might call it that."

The boy was much concerned. "If you come u