Ruth Leigh was not dependent upon Father Damon, but she also learned how long ten days could be without a sight of him.  When she looked into his chapel occasionally she realized, as never before, how much in the air his ceremonies and his creed were.  There was nothing there for her except his memory.  And she knew when she stepped in there, for her cool, reasoning mind was honest, that it was the thought of him that drew her to the place, and that going there was a sentimental indulgence.  What she would have said was that she admired, loved Father Damon on account of his love for humanity.  It was a common saying of all the professional women in her set, and of the working-girls, that they loved Father Damon.  It is a comfort to women to be able to give their affection freely where conventionalities and circumstances make the return of it in degree unlikely.

At the close of a debilitating day Dr. Leigh found herself in the neighborhood of the mission chapel.  She was tired and needed to rest somewhere.  She knew that Father Damon had returned, but she had not seen him, and a double motive drew her steps.  The attendance was larger than it had been recently, and she found a stool in a dark corner, and listened, with a weary sort of consciousness of the prayers and the singing, but not without a deeper feeling of peace in the tones of a voice every inflection of which she knew so well.  It seemed to her that the reading cost him an effort, and there was a note of pathos in the voice that thrilled her.  Presently he advanced towards the altar rail —­he was accustomed to do this with his little flock—­and placing one hand on the lectern, began to speak.

At first, and this was not usual, he spoke about himself in a strain of sincere humility, taking blame upon himself for his inability to do effectively the great service his Master had set him to do.  He meant to have given himself more entirely to the dear people among whom he labored; he hoped to show himself more worthy of the trust they had given him; he was grateful for the success of his mission, but no one knew so well as he how far short it came of being what he ought to have made it.  He knew indeed how weak he was, and he asked the aid of their sympathy and encouragement.  It seemed to be with difficulty that he said this, and to Ruth’s sympathetic ear there was an evidence of physical exhaustion in his tone.  There was in it, also, for her, a confession of failure, the cry of the preacher, in sorrow and entreaty, that says, “I have called so long, and ye would not listen.”

As he went on, still with an effort and feebly, there came over the little group a feeling of awe and wonderment, and the silence was profound.  Still steadying himself by the reading-desk, he went on to speak of other things, of those of his followers who listened, of the great mass swirling about them in the streets who did not listen and did not care; of the little life that now is so full of pain and hardship and