The priest clasped his hands together.  “We have many such, sir,” he replied solemnly.  The acknowledgment came reverently, with a gleam that shone from under the heavy brows.

Felix caught its brilliance, and the sense of a certain bigness in the man passed through him.  He had been prepared for his quiet, well-bred dignity.  All the priests he had known were thoroughbreds in their manner and bearing; their self-imposed restraint, self-effacement, absence of all unnecessary gesture, and modulated voices had made them so; but the warmth of this one’s underlying nature was as unexpected as it was pleasurable.

“Yes, you have many such,” O’Day repeated simply after a slight pause during which his thoughts seemed to have wandered afar.  “And now tell me,” he asked, rousing himself to renewed interest, “where your work lies—­your real work, I mean.  The mass is your rest.”

The priest turned quickly.  He wondered if there were a purpose behind the question.  “Oh, among my people,” he answered, the slow, even, non-committal tones belying the eagerness of his gesture.

“Yes, I know; but go on.  This is a great city—­ greater than I had ever supposed—­greater, in many ways, than London.  The luxury and waste are appalling; the misery is more appalling still.  What sort of men and women do you put your hands on?”

“Here are some of them,” answered the priest, his forefinger pointing to Kitty and John.

“We could all of us do without churches and priests,” ventured Felix, his eyes kindling, “if your parishioners were as good as these dear people.”

“Well, there’s Bobby,” laughed the priest, his face turned toward the boy, who was sound asleep in his chair, Toodles, the door-mat of a dog, sprawled at his feet.

“And are there no others, Father Cruse?”

The priest, now convinced of a hidden meaning in the insistent tones, grew suddenly grave, and laid his hand on O’Day’s knee.  “Come and see me some time, and I will tell you.  My district runs from Fifth Avenue to the East River, from the homes of the rich to the haunts of the poor, and there is no form of vice and no depth of suffering the world over that does not knock daily at my study door.  Do not let us talk about it here.  Perhaps some day we may work together, if you are willing.”

Kitty, who had been listening, her heart throbbing with pride over Felix, who had held his own with her beloved priest, and still fearing that the talk would lead away from what was uppermost in her mind—­O’Day’s welfare—­now sprang from her chair before Felix could reply.  “Of course he’ll come, Father, once he’s seen ye.”

“Yes, I will,” answered Felix cordially.  “And it will not be very long either, Father.  And now I must say good night.  It has been a real pleasure to meet you.  You have been a most kindly grindstone to a very dull and useless knife, and I am greatly sharpened up.  After all, I think we both agree that it is rather difficult to keep anything bright very long unless you rub it against something still brighter and keener.  Thank you again, Father,” and with a pat of his fingers on Kitty’s shoulder as he passed, and a good night to John, he left the room on his way to his chamber above.