morrow. You'll be letting me do the trim, Mrs. Brandeis?"

He came back that evening to do it, and he threw his whole
soul into it, which, considering his ancestry and
temperament, was very high voltage for one small-town store
window. He covered the floor of the window with black crepe
paper, and hung it in long folds, like a curtain, against
the rear wall. The gilt of the scepters, and halos, and
capes showed up dazzlingly against this background. The
scarlets, and pinks, and blues, and whites of the robes
appeared doubly bright. The whole made a picture that
struck and held you by its vividness and contrast.

Father Fitzpatrick, very tall and straight, and handsome,
with his iron-gray hair and his cheeks pink as a girl's, did
step by next morning on his way to the post-office. It was
whispered that in his youth Father Fitzpatrick had been an
actor, and that he had deserted the footlights for the altar
lights because of a disappointment. The drama's loss was
the Church's gain. You should have heard him on Sunday
morning, now flaying them, now swaying them! He still had
the actor's flexible voice, vibrant, tremulous, or strident,
at will. And no amount of fasting or praying had ever
dimmed that certain something in his eye--the something
which makes the matinee idol.

Not only did he step by now; he turned, came back; stopped
before the window. Then he entered.

"Madam," he said to Mrs. Brandeis, "you'll probably save