As he listened with lowered head, a dull, scuffling sound was heard near the swinging doors of the vestibule, as if some one were being roughly handled. Then an angry voice, “she shan't go in!” followed by high-pitched, defiant tones: “Get out of my way. I shan't go in, shan't I? I'd like to see you or anybody else keep me out! This place is free, and so am I. Jim hasn't showed up, and I'm going to wait for him here. I've got a date.” She was abreast of Felix now, a girl of twenty, maudlin drunk, her hat awry, her hair in a frowse, her dress open at the neck. She steadied herself for a moment, and became conscious of Felix, who had risen, horror-stricken, from his seat. “Jim ain't showed up. He is all right, and don't you forget it. Them guys wanted to give me the grand bounce, but I got a date, see?” She reeled on up the aisle until she reached the steps of the altar. There she stood, swaying before the lights, repeating her cry: “They dassen't touch me. I got a date, I tell you!” Father Cruse, without turning, continued his ministrations with the same composure he would have maintained at a baptism had its solemnity been disturbed by the cry of a child. By this time, several women, appalled by the sacrilege, left their seats and moved toward her, begging, then commanding, her to stop talking, all fearing to add to the noise yet not daring to let it continue, until they gently but firmly pushed her through the door at the end of the church and so on into the street. Felix had followed every movement of the girl with an intensity that almost paralyzed his senses. He had looked into her bloodshot eyes, noted the hard lines drawn around the corners of her mouth, the coarse, painted lips, dry hair, and sunken cheeks. He had heard her harsh laugh and caught the glint of her drunken leer. A cold shiver swept through him. It was as if he had stepped on a flat stone covering a grave which had tilted beneath his feet, revealing a corpse but a few months buried. Had he been anywhere else he would have sunk to the floor--not to pray, but to rest his knees, which seemed giving out under him. When service was over, he made his way down the aisle, waited until the last of the worshippers had had their final word with their priest, and, with a respectful bend of the head in recognition, followed Father Cruse into the sacristy. “You remember me?” he said in a hoarse, constrained voice when the priest turned and faced him. “Yes, you are Mr. O'Day--Kitty Cleary's friend, and I need not tell you how glad I am to see you,” and he held out a cordial hand. “I have come as I promised you I would. Can you give me half an hour?” “With the greatest pleasure. My duties are over just as soon as I put these vestments away. But I am sorry you came to-night, for you have witnessed a most distressing sight.” Felix looked at him steadily. “Do such things happen often?” he asked, his voice breaking.