“A preacher!” sneered Dryfoos.  “I reckon bein’ a preacher wouldn’t satisfy him now.  He had the impudence to tell me this afternoon that he would like to be a priest; and he threw it up to me that he never could be because I’d kept him from studyin’.”

“He don’t mean a Catholic priest—­not a Roman one, Jacob,” the old woman explained, wistfully.  “He’s told me all about it.  They ain’t the kind o’ Catholics we been used to; some sort of ’Piscopalians; and they do a heap o’ good amongst the poor folks over there.  He says we ain’t got any idea how folks lives in them tenement houses, hundreds of ’em in one house, and whole families in a room; and it burns in his heart to help ’em like them Fathers, as he calls ’em, that gives their lives to it.  He can’t be a Father, he says, because he can’t git the eddication now; but he can be a Brother; and I can’t find a word to say ag’inst it, when it gits to talkin’, Jacob.”

“I ain’t saying anything against his priests, ’Liz’beth,” said Dryfoos.  “They’re all well enough in their way; they’ve given up their lives to it, and it’s a matter of business with them, like any other.  But what I’m talking about now is Coonrod.  I don’t object to his doin’ all the charity he wants to, and the Lord knows I’ve never been stingy with him about it.  He might have all the money he wants, to give round any way he pleases.”

“That’s what I told him once, but he says money ain’t the thing—­or not the only thing you got to give to them poor folks.  You got to give your time and your knowledge and your love—­I don’t know what all you got to give yourself, if you expect to help ’em.  That’s what Coonrod says.”

“Well, I can tell him that charity begins at home,” said Dryfoos, sitting up in his impatience.  “And he’d better give himself to us a little—­to his old father and mother.  And his sisters.  What’s he doin’ goin’ off there to his meetings, and I don’t know what all, an’ leavin’ them here alone?”

“Why, ain’t Mr. Beaton with ’em?” asked the old woman.  “I thought I heared his voice.”

“Mr. Beaton!  Of course he is!  And who’s Mr. Beaton, anyway?”

“Why, ain’t he one of the men in Coonrod’s office?  I thought I heared—­”

“Yes, he is!  But who is he?  What’s he doing round here?  Is he makin’ up to Christine?”

“I reckon he is.  From Mely’s talk, she’s about crazy over the fellow.  Don’t you like him, Jacob?”

“I don’t know him, or what he is.  He hasn’t got any manners.  Who brought him here?  How’d he come to come, in the first place?”

“Mr. Fulkerson brung him, I believe,” said the old woman, patiently.

“Fulkerson!” Dryfoos snorted.  “Where’s Mrs. Mandel, I should like to know?  He brought her, too.  Does she go traipsin’ off this way every evening?”

“No, she seems to be here pretty regular most o’ the time.  I don’t know how we could ever git along without her, Jacob; she seems to know just what to do, and the girls would be ten times as outbreakin’ without her.  I hope you ain’t thinkin’ o’ turnin’ her off, Jacob?”