Kitty waited until the sound of O’Day’s footsteps told her that he had reached the top of the stairs and then turned to the priest.  “Well, what do ye think of him?  Have I told ye too much?  Did ye ever know the beat of a man like that, livin’ in a place like this and eatin’ at my table, and never a word of complaint out o’ him, and everybody lovin’ him the moment they clap their two eyes on him?”

The priest made no immediate answer.  For some seconds he gazed into the fire, then looked at John as if about to seek some further enlightenment, but changing his mind faced Kitty.  “Is his mail sent here?”

“What?  His letters?”

“Yes.”

“He don’t have any—­not one since he’s been wid us.”

“Anybody come to see him?”

“Niver a soul.”

The priest ruminated for a moment more, and then said slowly, as if his mind were made up:  “It does not matter; somebody or something has hurt him, and he has gone off to die by himself.  In the old days such men sought the monasteries; to-day they try to lose themselves in the crowd.”

Again he ruminated, the delicate antennae of his hands meeting each other at the tips.

“A most extraordinary case,” he said at last.  “No malice, no bitterness—­yet eating his heart out.  Pitiful, really; and the worst thing about it is that you can’t help him, for his secret will die with him.  Bring him to me sometime, and let me know before you come so I may be at home.”

“You don’t think there’s anything crooked about him, Father, do you?” said John, who had sat tilted back against the wall and now brought the front legs of his chair to the floor with a bang.

“What do you mean by crooked.  John?” asked the priest.

“Well, he blew in here from nowheres, bringin’ a couple of trunks and a hat-box, and not much in ’em, from what Kitty says.  And he might blow out again some fine night, leavin’ his own full of bricks, carting off instead some I keep on storage for my customers, full of God knows what!—­but somethin’ that’s worth money, or they wouldn’t have me take care of ’em.  There ain’t nothin’ to prevent him, for he’s got the run of the place day and night.  And Kitty’s that dead stuck on him she’ll believe anything he says.”

Kitty wheeled around in her seat, her big strong fist tightly clinched.  “Hold your tongue, John Cleary!” she cried indignantly.  “I’d knock any man down—­ I don’t care how big he was—­that would be a-sayin’ that of ye without somethin’ to back it up, and that’s what’ll happen to ye if ye don’t mend your manners.  Can’t ye see, Father, that Mr. Felix O’Day is the real thing, and no sham about him?  I do, and Kling does, and so does that darlin’ Masie, and every man, woman, and child around here that can get their hands on him or a word wid him.  Shame on ye, John!  Tell him so, Father Cruse!”

The priest kept silent, waiting until the slight family squall—­never very long nor serious between John and Kitty—­had spent itself.