“Who was she?  Where did he meet her?”

“God only knows.  He never would say much about her even to Mr. McGoldrick, but John always stuck it out that she was never the right sort in the beginning, and that Mr. O’Hara got tangled up with her somewhere in a mining town out West, and couldn’t get out.  I’ve heard she was a chambermaid or a barmaid or something in a miners’ hotel, but I don’t know, and nobody else knows, for Mr. O’Hara never opened his mouth about her.  All we know positive is that she must have been a drug fiend long before he ever married her, and that he stuck to her for better or for worse until she died and was buried.  Some men are like that, you know, a few of ’em.  When a thing once belongs to ’em, no matter what it is or how little it’s worth, they’ll go through fire and water for the sake of it—­and it makes no difference whether it’s a woman or a railroad or a dog or a mine.  They’ve got the sense of responsibility like a disease.  You see, Mr. O’Hara is that sort, and you might as well try to turn a steam roller as to start to reason him out of a notion.  It would have been as easy as talking for him to have got a divorce.  Time and again Mr. McGoldrick used to go after him about it, and talk himself hoarse; but it didn’t do any good, not a particle.  Instead of getting free out there in the West where it was easy, he kept on lugging that crazy woman back and forth, trying to cure her long after everybody else had given up hope and was wishing that she was dead.”

“Well, I suppose he loved her.”

“No, ma’am, that’s the funny part, but it didn’t look like love to me—­not like what men call love, anyway.  If it had been love, it would have worn itself out long ago.  Who on earth could love a crazy, yellow, shrieking, cursing creature like that?  I saw her sometimes when he’d send me to take things down to her, and I tell you it wasn’t love—­not man’s love, anyhow—­that made him do what he did.”

“Then it must have been something finer even than love,” Gabriella acquiesced after a moment.  “It’s strange, when we come to think of it, how often we find spirituality in places where we’d never expect it to be.”

“I don’t know that I’d call Mr. O’Hara spiritual exactly,” replied Mrs. Squires thoughtfully.  “I don’t believe he ever puts his foot inside a church, and I’ve heard him swear when he got ready till you’d expect the roof to drop in on you, but when you come to think of it,” she concluded, “I guess there’s a good deal of religion floating around outside of walls.”

At the next corner they parted, and as the caretaker stopped to shake hands with Gabriella and thank her for a birthday present for Johnny, she added nervously:  “I hope I haven’t said anything that I oughtn’t to have said, Mrs. Carr.  Mr. O’Hara has been as good as gold to me, and I shouldn’t like him to hear I’d been talking about him.”

“He shan’t hear, I promise you”; and while Mrs. Squires hurried, reassured, to her home in Sixth Avenue, Gabriella walked briskly with the crowd which was streaming along Twenty-third Street into Broadway.