bishop, you know. He was a great friend of the old Bishop who died
three months before the Padre came here. A new Bishop came--"

"'Who knew not Joseph'?"

But the Scripture was lost on the agent.

"His name is not Joseph," he answered solemnly, "but Donald, Donald
Murray. I read it on the book order I got."

"Donald! Funny name for a Catholic," commented Mark. "It sounds
Presbyterian."

"That's what it is," said Saunders quickly. "The Padre is a convert to
the Catholic Church. He was 'way up once, but he lost his big job as
vicar general, and then he lost all his big jobs. I met a priest on
the train once--a young fellow--who told me, with a funny sort of laugh
that sounded a bit sad, too, that the Bishop had the Padre buried."

"I see," said Mark, though he didn't see any more than the agent. "But
the priest doesn't take it hard, does he?"

"Not that you could notice," Saunders answered. "The Padre's
jolly--smart, too--and a bookman. He has books enough in that little
house to start a public library, but he's too poor now to buy many of
the kind he's daffy over--old stuff, you know, first editions and the
like."

They crossed the street to the rectory, an old-fashioned house nestling
among the trees, the parapet and pillars of its broad veranda almost