an intensely respectable suburb, with sad story. Mr. Crips did not
address the lady as an unblushing mendicant, he spoke as a man of some
refinement and keen sensibility, whose bitter complaint was literally
dragged from him by adverse circumstances.

The lady was touched--her eye moistened.

"That is really very sad," she said. "Come right in, my poor man. You
must tell your story to my James. James will know how to help you."

Nickie followed the lady without the smallest compunction. She knocked
quietly at the door of a room and admitted Nicholas to a small apartment
fitted up like a study. At a table near the window a grave young man was
seated with writing materials before him.

"Well, mater" he said, "whom have we here? Another of your proteges?"

"I want you to listen to this poor fellow, James," said the lady, "his
story will touch you as it has touched me. My poor man, this is my son,
the Rev. James Nippit."

Nickie bowed with a grace that did not belong to his tramp's garments and
his insanitary and unshaven state.

"Thank God. I have met you, sir," he said, in the voice of a strong man
whose sorrows have about broken his proud spirit, "if your heart is as
gentle as that of this sweet lady."

The lady withdrew, and the Rev. James Nippit, who had been eyeing Mr.
Crips keenly, motioned hit to a chair.