“With Mr. Bentley,” he replied.

He had spoken without bitterness.  Although there had indeed been bitterness in his soul, it passed away in the atmosphere of Mr. Bentley’s house.  The process now taking place in him was the same complication of negative and positive currents he had felt in her presence before.  He was surprised to find that his old antipathy to agnosticism held over, in her case; to discover, now, that he was by no means, as yet, in view of the existence of Horace Bentley, to go the full length of unbelief!  On the other hand, he saw that she had divined much of what had happened to him, and he felt radiating from her a sympathetic understanding which seemed almost a claim.  She had a claim, although he could not have said of what it was constituted.  Their personal relationship bore responsibilities.  It suddenly came over him, in fact, that the two persons who in all the world were nearest him were herself and Mr. Bentley!  He responded, scarce knowing why he did so, to the positive current.

“With Mr. Bentley,” he repeated, smiling, and meeting her eyes, “I have been learning something about the actual conditions of life in a modern city.”

She bent a little toward him in one of those spontaneous movements that characterized her.

“Tell me—­what is his life?” she asked.  “I have seen so little of it, and he has told me nothing himself.  At first, in the Park, I saw only a kindly old gentleman, with a wonderful, restful personality, who had been a dear friend of my mother’s.  I didn’t connect those boys with him.  But since then—­since I have been here twice, I have seen other things which make me wonder how far his influence extends.”  She paused.

“I, too, have wondered,” said the rector, thoughtfully.  “When I met him, I supposed he were merely living in simple relationships with his neighbours here in Dalton Street, but by degrees I have discovered that his relationships are as wide as the city itself.  And they have grown naturally—­by radiation, as it were.  One incident has led to another, one act of kindness to another, until now there seems literally no end to the men and women with whom he is in personal touch, who are ready to do anything in their power for him at any time.  It is an institution, in fact, wholly unorganized, which in the final analysis is one man.  And there is in it absolutely nothing of that element which has come to be known as charity.”

Alison listened with parted lips.

“To give you an example,” he went on, gradually be coming fired by his subject, by her absorption, “since you have mentioned Mrs. Garvin, I will tell you what happened in that case.  It is typical of many.  It was a question of taking care of this woman, who was worn out and crushed, until she should recover sufficiently to take care of herself.  Mr. Bentley did not need any assistance from me to get the boy into the hospital—­Dr. Jarvis worships him.  But the mother.  I might possibly have got her into an institutional home—­Mr. Bentley did better than that, far better.  On the day of the funeral we went directly from the cemetery to the house of a widow who owns a little fruit farm beyond the Park.  Her name is Bledsoe, and it is not an exaggeration to say that her house, small as it is, contains an endowed room always at Mr. Bentley’s disposal.