“The drunkard stood staring.

“The priest advanced step by step.  The brute cowered, staggered back, and fell in a heap on the floor.”

“Magnificent,” broke out Lockwood.  “Superb! 
And well told.  You would make a great actor,
Murford.”

“Perhaps,” answered Silas with a reproving look, “but don’t forget that it happened.”

“I haven’t a doubt of it,” exclaimed Felix quietly, “but please go on, Mr. Murford.  To me your story has only begun.  What happened next?”

Silas’s eyes glistened.  Lockwood’s criticism had gone over his head; he was accustomed to that sort of thing.  What pleased him was the interest O’Day had shown in his pet subject—­the sufferings of the poor being one of his lifelong topics of thought and conversation.

“The confessional happened next,” replied Silas.  “Then a sober husband, a sober wife, and a girl at work—­and they are still at it—­for I got the man a job as night-watchman in the custom-house, at Father Cruse’s request.”

Felix started forward.  “You surely don’t mean Father Cruse of St. Barnabas’s?” he exclaimed eagerly.

“Exactly.”

“Was it he who burst in that door?”

“It was, and there isn’t a tramp or a stranded girl within half a mile of where we sit that he doesn’t know and take care of.  So I say you can have your money kings and your popes and your doges; as for me, I’ll take Father Cruse every time, and there’s dozens just like him.”

Felix pushed back his chair, reached for his hat, said good night in his usual civil tone, and left the shop, Murford merely nodding at him over the bowl of his pipe, the others taking no notice of his departure.  It was the way they did things at Kelsey’s.  There were no great welcomings when they arrived and no good-bys when they parted.  They would meet again the next night, perhaps the next morning—­and more extended courtesies were considered unnecessary.

All the way back to Kitty’s the erect figure of Father Cruse, holding the emblem of his faith in that dimly lighted room stood out clear.  He wondered why he had not seen more of the man whose courage and faith he himself had dimly recognized at their first meeting, and determined to cultivate his acquaintance at once.  Long ago he had promised Kitty to do so.  He would keep that promise by timing his visit so as to reach St. Barnabas’s when the service was over.  The balance of the evening could then be spent with the father.

He glanced at his watch and a glow of satisfaction spread over his face as he noted the hour.  Kitty would be up, and he would have the opportunity of delighting her with the details of the tribute Murford had paid her beloved priest.  The more he pictured the effect upon her, the lighter grew his heart.

He began before the knob of the sitting-room had left his hand and had gone as far as:  “Oh I heard something about a friend of yours who—­” when she checked him by rising to her feet and exclaiming: