"Why not? You don't know which saint I was talking about. It was My Lady of
the Candles. She had the most beautiful hands in the world, and all day
long she sat at a table making stitches on cloth of gold. Which was bad for
her eyes, by the way."

"Ah, yes!" sighed Alice.

"There are all kinds of miracles in Notre-Dame," he went on playfully, "but
the greatest miracle is how this saint with the eyes and the hands and the
hair ever dropped down at that little table. Nobody could explain it, so
the young fellow with the fur overcoat kept coming back and coming back to
see if he could figure it out. Only soon he came without his overcoat."

"In bitter cold weather," she said reproachfully.

"He was pretty blue that day, wasn't he? Dead sore on the game. Money all
blown in, overcoat up the spout, nothing ahead, and a whole year of--of
damned foolishness behind. Excuse _me_, but that's what it was. Well, he
blew in that day and--he walked over to where you were sitting, you darling
little saint!"

"No, no," murmured Alice, "not a saint, only a poor girl who saw you were
unhappy and--and was sorry."

Their eyes met tenderly, and for a moment neither spoke. Then Kittredge
went on unsteadily: "Anyhow you were kind to me, and I opened up a little.
I told you a few things, and--when I went away I felt more like a man. I
said to myself: 'Lloyd Kittredge, if you're any good you'll cut out this
thing that's been raising hell with you'--excuse _me_, but that's what it