“That reminds me,” said Father Murray.  “I had a convert priest here a little while ago.  His Bishop had sent him for his initial ’breaking in’ to one of the poorest parishes in a great city.  I questioned a little the advisability of doing that; so, after six months, when I met the priest—­who, by the way, had been a fashionable minister like myself—­I asked him rather anxiously how he liked his people.  ‘Charming people,’ he answered, ’charming.  Charming women, too—­Mrs. O’Rourke, Mrs. Sweeney, Mrs. Thomasefski—­’ ‘You speak of them,’ I said, ‘as if they were society ladies.’  ‘Better—­better still,’ he answered.  ’They’re the real thing—­fewer faults, more faith, more devotion.’  I tell you, Mr. Griffin, I never before met people such as these.”

“Mrs. O’Leary seems to have her pastor’s philosophy,” ventured the visitor.

“Philosophy!  That would seem a compliment indeed to Mrs. O’Leary.  She wouldn’t understand it, but she would recognize it as something fine.  It isn’t philosophy, though,” he added, slowly; “rather, it’s something bigger.  It’s real religion.”

“She needs it!”

“So do we all need it.  I never knew how much until I was so old that I had to weep for the barren years that might have bloomed.”  The priest sighed as he hunted for his pipe.

The discussion ended for, to Mark’s amazement, who should come up the walk, veiled indeed, yet unmistakable, but the lady of the tree?  Both the priest and his visitor stood up.  Mark reached for his hat and gloves.

“Pardon me,” said the lady, “for disturbing you, Monsignore.”

Father Murray laughed and put up his hand.  “Now, then—­please, please.”

“Well, Father, then.  I like it better, anyway.  I heard that poor man is dead.  Can I do anything?”

“I think you can,” said Father Murray.  “Will you step in?”

“No, Father; let me sit here.”  She looked at Mark, who stood waiting to make his adieux.  There was no mistaking the look, and the priest understood at once.  Plainly astonished, he introduced Mark.  The lady bowed and smiled.  As she sat down, she raised her veil.  Mark gazed timidly into her face.  Though she was seemingly unconscious of the gaze, yet a flush crept up under the fair skin, and the low voice faltered for an instant as she addressed him.

“I am a stranger here, like yourself, I fancy, Mr. Griffin,” she ventured, “but I have to thank you for a service.”

Mark was scarcely listening.  He was wondering if, underneath the drooping brim of her hat, amongst the curling tendrils of golden-brown hair, there might not be a hint of red to show under the sunlight.  He was thinking, too, how pretty was the name, Ruth Atheson.  It was English enough to make him think of her under certain trees in a certain old park of boyhood’s days.

“Do you know each other?” Father Murray was evidently still more astonished.