criticized, he--"

The sudden appearance of a limping object skirting the bushes caused her
to break off abruptly.

"Who on earth is that over there beyond the fountain?" she asked. "Why,
upon my word, it's Mac!--Mac!" she called anxiously. "Come here!"

The boy shamefacedly retraced his steps and presented himself on the
piazza. His shoes and stockings were covered with mud; the frills on his
shirt were torn and dirty; one eye was closed.

"Why, my darling child!" cried his mother, her listless, detached air
giving place to one of acute concern, "you've been in an accident!"

She had flown to him and enveloped him, mud and all, in her gauzy
embrace--an embrace from which Mac struggled to escape.

"I'm all right," he insisted impatiently. "Those kids back of the
cathedral got to bothering us, and we--"

"You mean those rowdies in the alley of whom Mason is always
complaining?" demanded the bishop, sternly.

"Yes, sir. They were throwing rocks and stepping on the new walk--"

"And you were helping the janitor keep them out?" broke in Mrs. Clarke.
"Isn't it an outrage, Bishop, that these children can't go to their choir
practice without being attacked by those dreadful ruffians?"