"Come and see
me some time, and I will tell you. My district runs from Fifth Avenue
to the East River, from the homes of the rich to the haunts of the poor,
and there is no form of vice and no depth of suffering the world over
that does not knock daily at my study door. Do not let us talk about it
here. Perhaps some day we may work together, if you are willing."

Kitty, who had been listening, her heart throbbing with pride over
Felix, who had held his own with her beloved priest, and still
fearing that the talk would lead away from what was uppermost in her
mind--O'Day's welfare--now sprang from her chair before Felix could
reply. "Of course he'll come, Father, once he's seen ye."

"Yes, I will," answered Felix cordially. "And it will not be very
long either, Father. And now I must say good night. It has been a real
pleasure to meet you. You have been a most kindly grindstone to a very
dull and useless knife, and I am greatly sharpened up. After all, I
think we both agree that it is rather difficult to keep anything bright
very long unless you rub it against something still brighter and keener.
Thank you again, Father," and with a pat of his fingers on Kitty's
shoulder as he passed, and a good night to John, he left the room on his
way to his chamber above.

Kitty waited until the sound of O'Day's footsteps told her that he had
reached the top of the stairs and then turned to the priest. "Well, what
do ye think of him? Have I told ye too much? Did ye ever know the beat
of a man like that, livin' in a place like this and eatin' at my table,
and never a word of complaint out o' him, and everybody lovin' him the
moment they clap their two eyes on him?"

The priest made no immediate answer. For some seconds he gazed into
the fire, then looked at John as if about to seek some further
enlightenment, but changing his mind faced Kitty. "Is his mail sent
here?"

"What? His letters?"

"Yes."

"He don't have any--not one since he's been wid us."

"Anybody come to see him?"

"Niver a soul."

The priest ruminated for a moment more, and then said slowly, as if his
mind were made up: "It does not matter; somebody or something has hurt
him, and he has gone off to die by himself. In the old days such men
sought the monasteries; to-day they try to lose themselves in the
crowd."

Again he ruminated, the delicate antennae of his hands meeting each
other at the tips.

"A most extraordinary case," he said at last. "No malic