“No,” and Jack forced a little laugh, “I’m not so good as that.  I’m kept in town on business.  I strolled over here to see how the other side of life looks.”

“It doesn’t improve.  It is one of the worst summers I ever saw.  Since Mr. Henderson’s death—­”

“What difference did Henderson’s death make over here?”

“Why, he had deposited a little fund for Father Damon to draw on, and the day after his death the bank returned a small check with the notice that there was no deposit to draw on.  It had been such a help in extraordinary cases.  Perhaps you saw some allusion to it in the newspapers?”

“Wasn’t it the Margaret Fund?”

“Yes.  Father Damon dropped a note to Mrs. Henderson explaining about it.  No reply came.”

“As he might have expected.”  Dr. Leigh looked up quickly as if for an explanation, but Jack ignored the query, and went on.  “And Father Damon, is he as active as ever?”

“He has gone.”

“What, left the city, quit his work?  And the mission?”

“I don’t suppose he will ever quit his work while he lives, but he is much broken down.  The mission chapel is not closed, but a poor woman told me that it seemed so.”

“And he will not return?  Mrs. Delancy will be so sorry.”

“I think not.  He is in retreat now, and I heard that he might go to Baltimore.  I thought of your wife.  She was so interested in his work.  Is she well this summer?”

“Yes, thank you,” said Jack, and they parted.  But as she went on her way his altered appearance struck her anew, and she wondered what had happened.

This meeting with Mr. Delancy recalled most forcibly Edith, her interest in the East Side work, her sympathy with Father Damon and the mission, the first flush of those days of enthusiasm.  When Father Damon began his work the ladies used to come in their carriages to the little chapel with flowers and money and hearts full of sympathy with the devoted priest.  Alone of all these Edith had been faithful in her visits, always, when she was in town.  And now the whole glittering show of charity had vanished for the time, and Father Damon—­The little doctor stopped, consulted a memorandum in her hand-bag, looked up at the tenement-house she was passing, and then began to climb its rickety stairway.

Yes, Father Damon had gone, and Ruth Leigh simply went on with her work as before.  Perhaps in all the city that summer there was no other person whose daily life was so little changed as hers.  Others were driven away by the heat, by temporary weariness, by the need of a vacation and change of scene.  Some charities and some clubs and schools were temporarily suspended; other charities, befitting the name, were more active, the very young children were most looked after, and the Good Samaritans of the Fresh-Air Funds went about everywhere full of this new enthusiasm of humanity.  But the occupation of Ruth Leigh remained