But Edith had one confidant—­the boy.  And he was perfectly safe; he would reveal nothing.  There were times when he seemed to understand, and whether he did or not she poured out her heart to him.  Often in the twilight she sat by him in this silent communion.  If he were asleep—­and he was not troubled with insomnia—­he was still company.  And when he was awake, his efforts to communicate the dawning ideas of the queer world into which he had come were a never-failing delight.  He wanted so many more things than he could ask for, which it was his mother’s pleasure to divine; later on he would ask for so many things he could not get.  The nurse said that he had uncommon strength of will.

These were happy hours, imagining what the boy would be, planning what she would make his life, hours enjoyed as a traveler enjoys wayside flowers, snatched before an approaching storm.  It is a pity, the nurse would say, that his father cannot see him now.  And at the thought Edith could only see the child through tears, and a great weight rested on her heart in all this happiness.

XVI

When Father Damon parted from Edith he seemed to himself strengthened in his spirit.  His momentary outburst had shown him where he stood-the strength of his fearful temptation.  To see it was to be able to conquer it.  He would humiliate himself; he would scourge himself; he would fast and pray; he would throw himself more unreservedly into the service of his Master.  He had been too compromising with sin and sinners, and with his own weakness and sin, the worst of all.

The priest walked swiftly through the wintry streets, welcoming as a sort of penance the biting frost which burned his face and penetrated his garments.  He little heeded the passers in the streets, those who hurried or those who loitered, only, if he met or passed a woman or a group of girls, he instinctively drew himself away and walked more rapidly.  He strode on uncompromisingly, and his clean-shaved face was set in rigid lines.  Those who saw him pass would have said that there went an ascetic bent on judgment.  Many who did know him, and who ordinarily would have saluted him, sure of a friendly greeting, were repelled by his stern face and determined air, and made no sign.  The father had something on his mind.

As he turned into Rivington Street there approached him from the opposite direction a girl, walking slowly and undecidedly.  When he came near her she looked up, with an appealing recognition.  In a flash of the quick passing he thought he knew her—­a girl who had attended his mission and whom he had not seen for several months-but he made no sign and passed on.

“Father Damon!”

He turned about short at the sound of the weak, pleading voice, but with no relaxation of his severe, introverted mood.  “Well?”

It was the girl he remembered.  She wore a dress of silk that had once been fine, and over it an ample cloak that had quite lost its freshness, and a hat still gay with cheap flowers.  Her face, which had a sweet and almost innocent expression, was drawn and anxious.  The eyes were those of a troubled and hunted animal.