"

"Yes, and with the greatest pleasure. But why at those hours?" asked the
priest with some curiosity.

"Because I am very busy at other times. But I want to be quite frank. If
I come, it will not be because I need your service, but because I shall
want to see YOU. Your church is not my church, and never has been, but
your people--especially your priests--have always had my admiration
and respect. I have known many of your brethren in my time. One in
particular, who is now very old--a dear abbe, living in Paris. Heaven is
made up of just such saints."

The priest clasped his hands together. "We have many such, sir," he
replied solemnly. The acknowledgment came reverently, with a gleam that
shone from under the heavy brows.

Felix caught its brilliance, and the sense of a certain bigness in the
man passed through him. He had been prepared for his quiet, well-bred
dignity. All the priests he had known were thoroughbreds in their manner
and bearing; their self-imposed restraint, self-effacement, absence of
all unnecessary gesture, and modulated voices had made them so; but
the warmth of this one's underlying nature was as unexpected as it was
pleasurable.

"Yes, you have many such," O'Day repeated simply after a slight pause
during which his thoughts seemed to have wandered afar. "And now tell
me," he asked, rousing himself to renewed interest, "where your work
lies--your real work, I mean. The mass is your rest."

The priest turned quickly. He wondered if there were a purpose behind
the question. "Oh, among my people," he answered, the slow, even,
non-committal tones belying the eagerness of his gesture.

"Yes, I know; but go on. This is a great city--greater than I had ever
supposed--greater, in many ways, than London. The luxury and waste are
appalling; the misery is more appalling still. What sort of men and
women do you put your hands on?"

"Here are some of them," answered the priest, his forefinger pointing to
Kitty and John.

"We could all of us do without churches and priests," ventured Felix,
his eyes kindling, "if your parishioners were as good as these dear
people."

"Well, there's Bobby," laughed the priest, his face turned toward the
boy, who was sound asleep in his chair, Toodles, the door-mat of a dog,
sprawled at his feet.

"And are there no others, Father Cruse?"

The priest, now convinced of a hidden meaning in the insistent tones,
grew suddenly grave, and laid his hand on O'Day's knee.