Felix, who had been looking the speaker over, taking in his thoughtful face, deep black eyes, and more especially the heavy black eyebrows that lay straight above them, felt himself warmed by the hearty greeting and touched by its sincerity. “I agree with you, Father, in your praise of them,” he said as he grasped the priest's hand. “They have been everything to me since my sojourn among them. And, if I am not mistaken, you and I have something else in common. My people are from Limerick.” “And mine from Cork,” laughed the priest as he waved his hand toward his empty chair, adding: “Let me move it nearer the table.” “No, I will take my old seat, if you do not mind. Please do not move, Mr. Cleary; I am near enough.” “And are you an importation, Father, like myself?” continued Felix, shifting the rocker for a better view of the priest. “No. I am only an Irishman by inheritance. I was brought up on the soil, born down in Greenwich village--and a very queer old part of the town it is. Strange to say, there are very few changes along its streets since my boyhood. I found the other day the very slanting cellar door I used to slide on when I was so high! Do you know Greenwich?” He was sitting upright as he spoke, his hands hidden in the folds of his black cassock, wondering meanwhile what was causing the deep lines on the brow of this high-bred, courteous man, and the anxious look in the deep-set eyes. As priest he had looked into many others, framed in the side window of the confessional--the most wonderful of all schools for studying human nature--but few like those of the man before him; eyes so clear and sincere, yet shadowed by what the priest vaguely felt was some overwhelming sorrow. “Oh, yes, I know it as I know most of New York,” Felix was saying; “it is close to Jefferson Market and full of small houses, where I should think people could live very cheaply”; adding, with a sigh, “I have walked a great deal about your city,” and as suddenly checked himself, as if the mere statement might lead to discussion. Kitty, who had been darning one of John's gray yarn stockings--the needle was still between her thumb and forefinger--leaned forward. “That's the matter with him, Father, and he'll never be happy until he stops it,” she cried. “He don't do nothin' but tramp the streets until I think he'd get that tired he'd go to sleep standin' up.” Felix turned toward her. “And why not, Mrs. Cleary?” he asked with a smile. “How can I learn anything about this great metropolis unless I see it for myself?” “But it's all Sunday and every night! I get that worried about ye sometimes, I'm ready to cry. And ye won't listen to a thing I say! I been waitin' for Father Cruse to get hold of ye, and I'm goin' to say what's in my mind.” Here she looked appealingly to the priest. “Now, ye just talk to him, Father, won't ye, please?”