ook out upon the
platform and see that distinguished figure standing there, waiting for
her--for her, Georgiana Warne, maker of rugs for small sums of money,
wearer of other people's cast-oft clothing, undistinguished by anything
in the world--except by being the daughter of a real saint; and that was
much after all. Fate had not left her without the best beginning in
life, the being brought into it by such a father and mother--bless them!

The hours flew by, the train passed through the outlying towns and came
at last to the monster city. The lights within the car and without were
bright as they drew into the great station. Following the porter who
carried Mr. Warne's worn black bag and his daughter's fine one--given
her by Aunt Olivia that summer--her arm beneath her father's, Georgiana
made her way through the car, into the vestibule, out upon the platform.
No sight of Doctor Craig rewarded the hurried glance she gave about her.
But before she could take alarm a fresh-faced young man in the livery of
a chauffeur came up to her, saying respectfully:

"I beg pardon, is it Miss Warne?" And upon her assent he said rapidly:
"Doctor Craig bid me say he was called to a case he could not refuse,
but he hopes to be home soon. I am to take you up and to see to your
luggage."

"We have no luggage but these bags," Georgiana told him, wondering for a
moment how he had recognized her so readily, then understanding that
though she herself might be a figure indistinguishable by description
from many another, that of Father Davy could not fail of recognition by
one who had been told what to expect.

"I have a chair here for the gentleman," the man said, and he indicated
one of the station chairs attended by a red-capped porter.

Mr. Warne, being wheeled rapidly through the great station, looked
about him with the eager eyes of a boy. It was twenty years--twenty long
and quiet years, since he had been in New York. What had not happened
since then? In spite of the myriad descriptions he had read and pictures
he had studied, the effect upon him of the real city, as, having been
transferred from the chair to a small but luxurious closed car, he was
conveyed along the thronged, astonishingly lighted streets, was
overwhelming. Suddenly he closed his eyes and laid his head back against
the cushioned leather.

Georgiana bent anxiously toward him. "Are you frightfully tired, Father
dear? Are you--faint?"

His eyes opened and his lips