The true key to his character was his loyalty to the Church which had fed, clothed, and educated him. She might not be as infallible as she thought herself; it might even be that she had, historically and doctrinally, made mistakes; but if he admitted these to himself, he was too true a son to allow any one else to guess that he did so. Moreover, there was no one in the world for whose comfort and well-being he cared less than for those of the Rev. Bryan McClosky, so he was not likely to resent the lack of ecclesiastical preferment; and as his gravest doubts were whether he should himself be more at home in any other church than that of his birth, or whether he possessed the personal infallibility necessary to start a church of his own, he asked nothing better than to devote his life to the people whose coarse, ignorant, sometimes stupid and brutalized faces were upturned so eagerly Sunday after Sunday to his pulpit, or bowed beneath his benediction from the altar. The person for whom he had waited so long at last stepped upon the platform, and was greeted as a “thief of the world” and a “blazin’ heretic,” to the grinning amusement of Denny and one or two others. Ernest Clare took the matter very quietly, though there was a gleam in his blue eyes and a certain compression about his mouth, that seemed to show that quietude was rather acquired than innate to a man of his character. He was considerably above the medium height, and magnificently proportioned; indeed, his muscular development was usually the first item of his personal appearance to attract attention. It was only a second glance, with most people, that noted the calm, pure face, with its smooth, white brow, clear eyes, and firm, steadfast lips. There was something rather wonderful about those eyes, under the straight, dark brows and long, black lashes; they were so soft and utterly still in their calm, blue depths, while over their surface glanced lights of fun or anger, or darkened clouds of sorrow. Some one who loved him had once said that Ernest Clare had two souls,—one which bore the burden and heat of the day, and one which abode ever upon the spiritual mountain-tops, rapt in the contemplation of things ineffable,—and that these two souls were mirrored in his eyes. When she said it, it had been true only at times; now the two souls were one. “It’s but a step to ‘Prices,’” said Father McClosky; “will ye walk, or ride?” “Of course, after that delicate hint, I will walk,” replied Mr. Clare, with a smile of amusement. “Sure, I only meant shank’s mare for ye to ride on, and carry your valise at that. Oh, ye heretic! if you did but know how glad I am to see you, and have a chance to convert ye.” “I believe that, Bryan; part of it, anyway. Could you get a room for me at this famous co-operative place of yours?” “Two of them,—bedroom and study.” “Study? Whew! don’t you know I’m out of a job and poor as a church-mouse?”