“Parson?”

“Well?”

“Why—­er—­come in a bit to-night, will you?  That is, if you’ve got time.  And look here:  don’t you get the notion in your bean I’m just some little old two-by-four guy of a yegg or some poor nut of a dip.  I’m not.  Why, I’ve been the whole show and manager besides.  Yep, I’m Slippy McGee himself.”

He paused, to let this sink into my consciousness.  I must confess that I was more profoundly impressed than even he had any idea of.  And then, magnanimously, he added:  “You’re sure some white man, parson.”

“Thank you, John Flint,” said I, with due modesty.

Heaven knows why I should have been pleased and hopeful, but I was.  My guest was a criminal; he hadn’t shown the slightest sign of compunction or of shame; instead, he had betrayed a brazen pride.  And yet—­I felt hopeful.  Although I knew I was tacitly concealing a burglar, my conscience remained clear and unclouded, and I had a calm intuitive assurance of right.  So deeply did I feel this that when I went over to the church I placed before St. Stanislaus a small lamp full of purest olive oil, which is expensive.  I felt that he deserved some compensation for hiding that package under his sheaf of lilies.

The authorities of our small town knew, of course, that another forlorn wretch was being cared for at the Parish House.  But had not the Parish House sheltered other such vagabonds?  The sheriff saw no reason to give himself the least concern, beyond making the most casual inquiry.  If I wanted the fellow, he was only too glad to let me keep him.  And who, indeed, would look for a notorious criminal in a Parish House Guest Room?  Who would connect that all too common occurrence, a tramp maimed by the railroad, with, the mysterious disappearance of the cracksman, Slippy McGee?  So, for the present, I could feel sure that the man was safe.

And in the meantime, in the orderly proceeding of everyday life, while he gained strength under my mother’s wise and careful nursing and Westmoreland’s wise and careful overseeing, there came to him those who were instruments for good—­my mother first, whom, like Clelie, he never called anything but “Madame” and whom, like Clelie, he presently obeyed with unquestioning and childlike readiness.  Now, Madame is a truly wonderful person when she deals with people like him.  Never for a moment lowering her own natural and beautiful dignity, but without a hint of condescension, Madame manages to find the just level upon which both can stand as on common ground; then, without noise, she helps, and she conveys the impression that thus noiselessly to help is the only just, natural and beautiful thing for any decent person to do, unless, perhaps, it might be to receive in the like spirit.