sit at the window--there to watch shadowy figures flit through the
street-lamp's circle of light. Once he fancied that his mother came
thus out of the night, that for a moment she paused with upturned
glance, then disappeared in woe and haste: returning, halted again; but
came no more....

At rare intervals the boy's mother came to the curate's door. She
would not enter: but timidly waited for her son, and then went with him
to the park, relieved to be away from the wide, still house, her
spirits and self-confidence reviving with every step. One mellow
evening, while they sat together in the dusk, an ill-clad man, gray and
unkempt, shuffled near.

"Mother," the boy whispered, gripping her hand, "he is looking at us."

She laughed. "Let him look!" said she. "It don't matter."

The man staggered to the bench--heavily sat down: limp and shameless,
his head hanging.

"Let us go away!" the boy pleaded.

"Why, darling?" his mother asked, puzzled. "What's the matter with
you, anyhow?" She looked at him--realizing some subtle change in him,
bewildered by it: searching eagerly for the nature and cause. "You
didn't used to be like that," she said.

"I don't like him. He's wicked. He frightens me."

The man slipped suddenly from the bench--sprawling upon the walk. The
woman laughed.

"Don't laugh!" the boy exclaimed--a cry of reproach, not free of
indignation. "Oh, mother," he complained, putting her hand to his
cheek, "how could you!"

She did not answer. The derelict picked himself up, whining in a
maudlin way.

"How could you!" the boy repeated.

"Oh," said she, lightly, "he's all right. He won't hurt us."

"He's wicked!"

"He's drunk. It don't matter. What's come over you, dear?"

"I'm afraid," said the boy. "He's sinful."

"He's only drunk, poor man!"

High over the houses beyond, the steeple of the Church of the Lifted
Cross pierced the blue-black sky. It was tipped with a blazing
cross--a great cross, flaming in the night: a symbol of sacrifice, a
hope, a protest, raised above the feverish world. To this the boy
looked. It transported him far from the woman whose hand he clutched.

"They who sin," he muttered, his eyes still turned to the lifted cross,
"crucify the dear Lord again!"

His mother was both mystified and appalled. She followed his
glance--but saw only the familiar landmark: an illuminated cross,
topping a steeple.

"For God's sake, Richard!" she demanded, "what