"I scarcely know yet," answered Theron. The genial talk of the priest,
with its whimsical anecdote, had in truth passed over his head. His
mind still had room for nothing but that novel death-bed scene, with
the winged captain of the angelic host, the Baptist, the glorified
Fisherman and the Preacher, all being summoned down in the pomp of
liturgical Latin to help MacEvoy to die. "If you don't mind my saying
so," he added hesitatingly, "what I have just seen in there DID make a
very powerful impression upon me."

"It is a very ancient ceremony," said the priest; "probably Persian,
like the baptismal form, although, for that matter, we can never dig
deep enough for the roots of these things. They all turn up Turanian if
we probe far enough. Our ways separate here, I'm afraid. I am delighted
to have made your acquaintance, Mr. Ware. Pray look in upon me, if you
can as well as not. We are near neighbors, you know."

Father Forbes had shaken hands, and moved off up another street some
distance, before the voice of the girl recalled Theron to himself.

"Of course you knew HIM by name," she was saying, "and he knew you
by sight, and had talked of you; but MY poor inferior sex has to be
introduced. I am Celia Madden. My father has the wagon-shops, and I--I
play the organ at the church."

"I--I am delighted to make your acquaintance," said Theron, conscious
as he spoke that he had slavishly echoed the formula of the priest. He
could think of nothing better to add than, "Unfortunately, we have no
organ in our church."

The girl laughed, as they resumed their walk down the street. "I'm