David took out his watch. "It is after eight o'clock," he said. "Probably if I walk down Garrison Avenue, I may meet Mr. Marion coming from Church. I'll be back soon." People were beginning to file out of the side entrance that led to the prayer-meeting room, by the time he reached the church. "Is Mr. Frank Marion in here?" he asked of the colored janitor, who was standing in the doorway. "Yes, sah!" was the emphatic response. "He sut'n'y is, sah! He am always the fust to come, an' the last to depaht." "Why, good evening, Mr. Herschel," exclaimed a pleasant voice. David turned quickly to lift his hat. An elderly lady was coming down the steps with two young girls. She came up to him with a smile, and held out her hand. "I have not seen you since you came back from college," she said, cordially; "but I never lose my interest in any of Rob's playmates." "Thank you, Mrs. Bond," he replied, with his hat still in his hand. As she passed on, a swift rush of recollection brought back the big attic where he had passed many a rainy day with Rob Bond. He recalled with something of the old boyish pleasure a certain jar on their pantry shelf, where the most delicious ginger-snaps were always to be found. But the next moment the smile left his lips, as an exclamation of one of the girls was carried back to him. It was made in an undertone, but the still evening air transmitted it with startling distinctness. "Why, Auntie, he's a Jew! I didn't think you would shake hands with a Jew!" He could not hear Mrs. Bond's reply. He drew himself up haughtily. Then the indignant flash died out of his eyes. After all, why should he, with the princely blood of Israel in his veins, care for the callow prejudices of a little school-girl? A crowd of people passed out, laughing and talking. Then he saw Mr. Marion come into the vestibule with several boys, just as the janitor began to extinguish the lights. He turned to David with a hearty smile and a strong hand-clasp, recognizing him instantly. "How are you, brother?" he asked. He spoke with a slight Southern accent. Somehow, David felt forcibly that it was not merely as a matter of habit that Frank Marion called him brother. Such a warm, personal interest seemed to speak through the friendly blue eyes looking so honestly into his own, that he was half-way persuaded to go to Chattanooga with him before a word had been said on the subject. They walked several blocks together up the avenue, discussing the excursion. Then Mr. Marion stopped at the gate of an old-fashioned residence, built some distance back from the street. "I have a message to deliver to Miss Hallam, a cousin of mine," he said. "If you will wait a moment, I'll go with you over to the office." The front door stood open, and the hall-lamp sent a flood of yellow light streaming out into the warm, June darkness.