Be Richling's feelings what they might, the Star Bakery shone in the retail firmament of the commercial heavens with new and growing brilliancy. There was scarcely time to talk even with the tough little rector who hovers on the borders of this history, and he might have become quite an alien had not Richling's earnest request made him one day a visitor, as we have seen him express his intention of being, in the foul corridors of the parish prison, and presently the occupant of a broken chair in the apartment apportioned to Raphael Ristofalo and two other prisoners. "Easy little tasks you cut out for your friends," said the rector to Richling when next they met. "I got preached _to_--not to say edified. I'll share my edification with you!" He told his experience. It was a sinister place, the prison apartment. The hand of Kate Ristofalo had removed some of its unsightly conditions and disguised others; but the bounds of the room, walls, ceiling, windows, floor, still displayed, with official unconcern, the grime and decay that is commonly thought good enough for men charged, rightly or wrongly, with crime. The clergyman's chair was in the centre of the floor. Ristofalo sat facing him a little way off on the right. A youth of nineteen sat tipped against the wall on the left, and a long-limbed, big-boned, red-shirted young Irishman occupied a poplar table, hanging one of his legs across a corner of it and letting the other down to the floor. Ristofalo remarked, in the form of polite acknowledgment, that the rector had preached to the assembled inmates of the prison on the Sunday previous. "Did I say anything that you thought was true?" asked the minister. The Italian smiled in the gentle manner that never failed him. "Didn't listen much," he said. He drew from a pocket of his black velveteen pantaloons a small crumpled tract. It may have been a favorite one with the clergyman, for the youth against the wall produced its counterpart, and the man on the edge of the table lay back on his elbow, and, with an indolent stretch of the opposite arm and both legs, drew a third one from a tin cup that rested on a greasy shelf behind him. The Irishman held his between his fingers and smirked a little toward the floor. Ristofalo extended his toward the visitor, and touched the caption with one finger: "Mercy offered." "Well," asked the rector, pleasantly, "what's the matter with that?" "Is no use yeh. Wrong place--this prison." "Um-hm," said the tract-distributor, glancing down at the leaf and smoothing it on his knee while he took time to think. "Well, why shouldn't mercy be offered here?" "No," replied Ristofalo, still smiling; "ought offer justice first." "Mr. Preacher," asked the young Irishman, bringing both legs to the front, and swinging them under the table, "d'ye vote?" "Yes; I vote." "D'ye call yerself a cidizen--with a cidizen's rights an' djuties?" "I do."