of which, in the chaos in which she was engulfed, often brought her to the verge of madness.  At first she had had a certain hesitation about going back, and on the occasion of her second visit had walked twice around the block before venturing to enter.  She had no claim on this man.  He was merely a chance acquaintance, a stranger—­and yet he seemed nearer to her, to understand her better than any one else she knew in the world.  This was queer, because she had not explained herself; nor had he asked her for any confidences.  She would have liked to confide in him—­some things:  he gave her the impression of comprehending life; of having, as his specialty, humanity itself; he should, she reflected, have been a minister, and smiled at the thought:  ministers, at any rate, ought to be like him, and then one might embrace Christianity—­the religion of her forefathers that Rolfe ridiculed.  But there was about Insall nothing of religion as she had grown up to apprehend the term.

Now that she had taken her courage in her hands and renewed her visits, they seemed to be the most natural proceedings in the world.  On that second occasion, when she had opened the door and palpitatingly climbed to the loft, the second batch of children were finishing their midday meal,—­rather more joyously, she thought, than before,—­and Insall himself was stooping over a small boy whom he had taken away from the table.  He did not notice her at once, and Janet watched them.  The child had a cough, his extreme thinness was emphasized by the coat he wore, several sizes too large for him.

“You come along with me, Marcus, I guess I can fit you out,” Insall was saying, when he looked up and saw Janet.

“Why, if it isn’t Miss Bumpus!  I thought you’d forgotten us.”

“Oh no,” she protested.  “I wanted to come.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Well, I have come,” she said, with a little sigh, and he did not press her further.  And she refrained from offering any conventional excuse, such as that of being interested in the children.  She had come to see him, and such was the faith with which he inspired her—­now that she was once more in his presence—­that she made no attempt to hide the fact.

“You’ve never seen my clothing store, have you?” he asked.  And with the child’s hand in his he led the way into a room at the rear of the loft.  A kit of carpenter’s tools was on the floor, and one wall was lined with box-like compartments made of new wood, each with its label in neat lettering indicating the articles contained therein.  “Shoes?” he repeated, as he ran his eye down the labels and suddenly opened a drawer.  “Here we are, Marcus.  Sit down there on the bench, and take off the shoes you have on.”

The boy had one of those long faces of the higher Jewish type, intelligent, wistful.  He seemed dazed by Insall’s kindness.  The shoes he wore were those of an adult, but cracked and split, revealing the cotton stocking and here and there the skin.  His little blue hands fumbled with the knotted strings that served for facings until Insall, producing a pocket knife, deftly cut the strings.