between his parents, facing about, gazing in unembarrassed wonder at the
dark lady with the veil. Alison's smile seemed only to increase the
solemnity of his adoration, and presently he attempted to climb over the
barrier between them. Hodder caught him, and the mother turned in alarm,
recapturing him.

"You mustn't bother the lady, Jimmy," she said, when she had thanked the
rector. She had dimpled cheeks and sparkling blue eyes, but their
expression changed as they fell on Alison's face, expressing something
of the wonder of the child's.

"Oh, he isn't bothering me," Alison protested. "Do let him stand."

"He don't make up to everybody," explained the mother, and the manner of
her speech was such a frank tribute that Alison flushed. There had been,
too, in the look the quick sympathy for bereavement of the poor.

"Aren't they nice?" Alison leaned over and whispered to Hodder, when the
woman had turned back. "One thing, at least, I shall never regret,--that
I shall have to ride the rest of my life in the streetcars. I love them.
That is probably my only qualification, dear, for a clergyman's wife."

Hodder laughed. "It strikes me," he said, "as the supreme one."

They came at length to Mr. Bentley's door, flung open in its usual wide
hospitality by Sam. Whatever theist fortunes, they would always be
welcome here . . . . But it turned out, in answer to their question,
that their friend was not at home.

"No, sah," said Sam, bowing and smiling benignantly, "but he done tole