Kitty, who had been darning one of John’s gray yarn stockings—­the needle was still between her thumb and forefinger—­leaned forward.  “That’s the matter with him, Father, and he’ll never be happy until he stops it,” she cried.  “He don’t do nothin’ but tramp the streets until I think he’d get that tired he’d go to sleep standin’ up.”

Felix turned toward her.  “And why not, Mrs. Cleary?” he asked with a smile.  “How can I learn anything about this great metropolis unless I see it for myself?”

“But it’s all Sunday and every night!  I get that worried about ye sometimes, I’m ready to cry.  And ye won’t listen to a thing I say!  I been waitin’ for Father Cruse to get hold of ye, and I’m goin’ to say what’s in my mind.”  Here she looked appealingly to the priest.  “Now, ye just talk to him, Father, won’t ye, please?”

The priest, laughing heartily, raised his protesting hands toward her.  “If he fails to heed you, Mrs. Cleary, he certainly won’t listen to me.  What do you say for yourself, Mr. O’Day?”

Felix twisted his head until he could address his words more directly to his hostess.  “Please keep on scolding me, my dear Mrs. Cleary.  I love to hear you.  But there is Father Cruse, why not sympathize with him?  He tramps to some purpose.  I am only the Wandering Jew, who does it for exercise.”

Kitty held the point of the darning-needle straight out toward Felix.  “But why must you do it Sundays, Mr. O’Day?  That’s what I want to know.”

“But Sunday is my holiday.”

“Yes, and there’s early mass.  Ye’d think he’d come, wouldn’t ye, Father?”

One of O’Day’s low, murmuring laughs, that always sounded as if he had grown unaccustomed to letting the whole of it pass his lips, filtered through the room.

“You see what a heathen I am, Father,” he exclaimed.  “But I am going to turn over a new leaf.  I shall honor myself by visiting St. Barnabas’s some day very soon, and shall sit in the front pew—­or, perhaps, in yours, Mrs. Cleary, if you will let me—­now that I know who officiates,” and he inclined his head graciously toward the priest.  “I hope the service is not always in the morning!”

“Oh, no, we have a service very often at night, sometimes at eight o’clock.”

“And how long does that last?”

“Perhaps an hour.”

“And so if I should come at eight and wait until you are free, you could give me, perhaps, another hour of yourself?”

“Yes, and with the greatest pleasure.  But why at those hours?” asked the priest with some curiosity.

“Because I am very busy at other times.  But I want to be quite frank.  If I come, it will not be because I need your service, but because I shall want to see you.  Your church is not my church, and never has been, but your people—­especially your priests—­have always had my admiration and respect.  I have known many of your brethren in my time.  One in particular, who is now very old—­a dear abbe, living in Paris.  Heaven is made up of just such saints.”