ce!"

It was true that Mr. Neal and the chief clerk had become fast friends.
They had come to spend their Sundays together, and even to share
confidences, and so it was natural that when Mr. Neal saw the face for
the third time he should be moved to tell his friend about it. This
telling of his secret was epochal in Mr. Neal's life.

The two men sat on a bench in a more or less secluded part of Bronx
Park. Mr. Neal looked off among the trees as he told the story of the
face hesitatingly, often in difficulty for the right word, the light of
the mystic in his glowing eyes. The chief clerk listened attentively,
his cane across his knees, his lean face serious. His eyes bored into
the very mind of his friend with their keen gaze. When Mr. Neal told of
his failure to find the man with the good face in the house on Third
Avenue, his friend shook his head definitely.

"No!" he said. "No! I'll tell you what it is: it is what they call a
hallucination."

"Oh, no," replied Mr. Neal calmly. "It is real, John. There's no doubt
it's real."

The chief clerk shook his head sharply again, and there was a pause.

"I felt I must tell you," resumed Mr. Neal at length, "because I saw him
again last night."

His friend looked quickly at the little clerk, who gazed away among the
trees, his eyes luminous.

"I saw him in the Pennsylvania subway station, and I followed him out.
There was no doubt about it: I saw his face. He went down Eighth Avenue,
and I saw him turn in at a door. I wasn't far behind him. The door was
right next to a pawnshop. It was unlatched, and I went in. I found
myself in a dark hallway, but toward the other end there was light
coming from a half opened door. I was excited, John. Tremendously. You
see, John, it was the great experience of my life--no wonder I was
trembling.

"I stepped quietly back to where the light was, and looked into the room
that it came from. What do you think I saw, John? There was a young
mother and two fresh-cheeked boys; one of the boys was reading at the
table, and the other one sat in a low chair at his mother's knee and she
was talking to him--telling him stories, I think. The room was poor,
John, but the mother's face! It was wonderful! It reminded me of my own
mother's. There is just one word to describe it, John: it was a
Madonna's face--a Madonna of Eighth Avenue!"

Mr. Neal paused and glanced at his friend. The chief clerk said nothing,
but dug at the turf with his stick.