With a glance that would have broken Endicott’s heart if he had not been too stubborn to look up, Michael slowly folded the check and put it back into his pocket. “I do prize it,” he said, “and I prize it because you gave it to me. It meant and always will mean a great deal to me.” “H’m!” “There is one more thing perhaps I ought to tell you,” hesitated Michael “The farm. I am using it in my work for those people. Perhaps you will not approve of that—” “I have nothing further to do with the farm. You bought it, I believe. You desired to pay for it when you were earning enough money to be able to do so. That time has not yet come, therefore nothing further need be said. It is your farm and you may use it as a pleasure park for pigs if you like. I don’t go back on my bargains. Good afternoon.” Endicott turned to the ’phone, took up the receiver and called up a number. Michael saw that the conversation was ended. Slowly, with heavy step and heavier heart, he went out of the office. There were new lines of sadness on Michael’s face that day, and when he went down to the alley that evening his gentleness with all the little “kids,” and with the older ones, was so great that they looked at him more than once with a new kind of awe and wonder. It was the gentleness of sacrifice, of sacrifice for them, that was bringing with it the pain of love. Old Sal who came over to “look in” that evening, as she put it, shook her head as she stumped back to her rejuvenated room with its gaudy flowered wall, bit of white curtain and pot of flowers in the window, all the work of Michael and his follower Sam. “I’m thinkin’ he’ll disuppeer one o’ these days. Ye’ll wake up an’ he’ll be gahn. He’s not of this worrld. He’ll sprid his wings an’ away. He’s a man-angel, thet’s wot he is!” Michael went home that night and wrote a letter to Mr. Endicott that would have broken a heart of stone, telling his inmost thought; showing his love and anguish in every sentence; and setting forth simply and unassumingly the wonderful work he was doing in the alley. But though he waited in anxiety day after day he received not a word of reply. Endicott read the letter every word, and fairly gloated over the boy’s strength, but he was too stubborn to let it be known. Also he rather enjoyed the test to which he was putting him. Michael even watched the outgoing vessels on Saturday, looked up the passenger lists, went down to the wharf and tried to see him before he sailed, but for some reason was unable to get in touch with him. Standing sadly on the wharf as the vessel sailed he caught sight of Endicott, but though he was sure he had been seen he received no sign of recognition, and he turned away sick at heart, and feeling as if he had for conscience’s sake stabbed one that loved him. Chapter XVIII Those were trying days for Michael.