just off the Avenue.  He remembered its restful quiet, the coolness of its aisles and alcoves.  He was exhausted, and he went in.  He sat down facing the chancel, and as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom he saw that the broad, low dais in front of the organ was banked with great masses of hydrangeas.  There had been a wedding, probably the evening before.  My friend told me of the thickening that came in his throat, of the strange, terrible throb in his heart as he sat there alone—­the only soul in the church—­and stared at those hydrangeas.  Hydrangeas had been their own wedding flower, Father.  And then——­”

For the first time there was something like a break in the younger man’s voice.

“My friend thought he was alone,” he went on.  “But some one had come out like a shadow beyond the chancel railing, and of a sudden, beginning wonderfully low and sweet, the great organ began to fill the church with its melody.  The organist, too, thought he was alone.  He was a little, old man, his shoulders thin and drooped, his hair white.  But in his soul there must have been a great love and a great peace.  He played something low and sweet.  When he had finished he rose and went away as quietly as he had come, and for a long time after that my friend sat there—­alone.  Something new was born in him, something which I hope will grow and comfort him in the years to come.  When he went out into the city again the sun was shining.  He did not go home.  He did not see the woman—­his wife—­again.  He has never seen her since that night when she stood up in her dishevelled beauty and laughed at him.  Even the divorce proceedings did not bring them together.  I believe that he treated her fairly.  Through his attorneys he turned over to her a half of what he possessed.  Then he went away.  That was a year ago.  In that year I know that he has fought desperately to bring himself back into his old health of mind and body, and I am quite sure that he has failed.”

He paused, his story finished.  He drew the brim of his hat lower over his eyes, and then he rose to his feet.  His build was slim and clean-cut.  He was perhaps five feet ten inches in height, which was four inches taller than the Little Missioner.  His shoulders were of good breadth, his waist and hips of an athletic slimness.  But his clothes hung with a certain looseness.  His hands were unnaturally thin, and in his face still hovered the shadows of sickness and of mental suffering.

Father Roland stood beside him now with eyes that shone with a deep understanding.  Under the sputter of the lamp above their heads the two men clasped hands, and the Little Missioner’s grip was like the grip of iron.

“David, I’ve preached a strange code through the wilderness for many a long year,” he said, and his voice was vibrant with a strong emotion.  “I’m not Catholic and I’m not Church of England.  I’ve got no religion that wears a name.  I’m simply Father Roland, and all these years I’ve helped to bury the dead in the forest, an’ nurse the sick, an’ marry the living, an’ it may be that I’ve learned one thing better than most of you who live down in civilization.  And that’s how to find yourself when you’re down an’ out.  Boy, will you come with me?”