even as he was going mad. And yet he did not suspect her. If another had
told him that she was unclean I am sure he would have killed him. Slowly
he came to experience the agony of knowing that the woman whom he
worshipped did not love him. But this did not lead him to believe that
she could love another--or others. Then, one day, he left the city. She
went with him to the train--his wife. She saw him go. She waved her
handkerchief at him. And as she stood there she was--glorious."

Through partly closed eyes the Little Missioner saw his shoulders
tighten, and a hardness settle about his mouth. The voice, too, was
changed when it went on. It was almost emotionless.

"It's sometimes curious how the Chief Arbiter of things plays His tricks
on men--and women, isn't it, Father? There was trouble on the line
ahead, and my friend came back. It was unexpected. It was late when he
reached home, and with his night key he went in quietly, because he did
not want to awaken _her_. It was very still in the house--until he came
to the door of her room. There was a light. He heard voices--very low.
He listened. He went in."

There was a terrible silence. The ticking of Father Roland's big silver
watch seemed like the beating of a tiny drum.

"And what happened then, David?"

"My friend went in," repeated David. His eyes sought Father Roland's
squarely, and he saw the question there. "No, he did not kill them," he
said. "He doesn't know what kept him from killing--the man. He was a
coward, that man. He crawled away like a worm. Perhaps that was why my
friend spared him. The wonderful part of it was that the woman--his