Mrs. Clarke glanced anxiously down the poplar-bordered driveway. Her mother's intuition suggested that as it was now five-thirty, Mac must have been engaged in some more diverting pastime than praising the Lord with psalms and thanksgiving. "Your theory then, Bishop," said Mr. Clarke, who was evincing an unusual interest in the subject, "carried to its legitimate conclusion, would do away with all state interference? No compulsory education or child-labor laws, or houses of correction?" "Oh, I don't think the bishop means that at all!" said Mrs. Clarke. "But he is perfectly right about a mother knowing what is best for her child. Take Mac, for instance. Nobody has ever understood him, but me. What other people call wilfulness is really sensitiveness. He can't bear to be 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?" "You are quite sure you boys weren't to blame?" asked Mr. Clarke. "Now, Father!" protested his wife, "how can you? When Mac has just told us he was helping the janitor?" "It is no new thing, Mr. Clarke," said the bishop, solemnly shaking his head. "We have had to contend with that disreputable element back of us for years. On two occasions I have had to complain to the city authorities. A very bad neighborhood, I am told, very bad indeed." "But, Mac dearest," pursued his mother anxiously as she tried to brush the dried mud out of his hair. "Were you the only boy who stayed to help Mason keep them out?" Mac jerked his head away irritably. "Oh! It wasn't that way, Mother. You see--" "That's Mac all over," cried Mrs. Clarke. "He wouldn't claim any credit for the world. But look at the poor child's hands! Look at his eye! We must take some action at once. Can't we swear out a warrant or something against those hoodlums, and have them locked up?"