in' to one of the poorest parishes in a great city. I questioned a
little the advisability of doing that; so, after six months, when I met
the priest--who, by the way, had been a fashionable minister like
myself--I asked him rather anxiously how he liked his people.
'Charming people,' he answered, 'charming. Charming women, too--Mrs.
O'Rourke, Mrs. Sweeney, Mrs. Thomasefski--' 'You speak of them,' I
said, 'as if they were society ladies.' 'Better--better still,' he
answered. 'They're the real thing--fewer faults, more faith, more
devotion.' I tell you, Mr. Griffin, I never before met people such as
these."

"Mrs. O'Leary seems to have her pastor's philosophy," ventured the
visitor.

"Philosophy! That would seem a compliment indeed to Mrs. O'Leary. She
wouldn't understand it, but she would recognize it as something fine.
It isn't philosophy, though," he added, slowly; "rather, it's something
bigger. It's real religion."

"She needs it!"

"So do we all need it. I never knew how much until I was so old that I
had to weep for the barren years that might have bloomed." The priest
sighed as he hunted for his pipe.

The discussion ended for, to Mark's amazement, who should come up the
walk, veiled indeed, yet unmistakable, but the lady of the tree? Both
the priest and his visitor stood up. Mark reached for his hat and
gloves.