“This is Bruno Schaefer, janitor by the divine right of hereditary descent,” said Father McClosky, as a pleasant-looking young man sprang up from his seat beside a table, upon which lay several large books. “His brother Franz was the first under the present _régime_.” Bruno smiled broadly at this Irish heredity as he took Mr. Clare’s grip, umbrella, and hat, in exchange for a celluloid check. “Franz has been studying music in Germany, and now plays first violin in some famous orchestra beyant there; and Bruno is to be a heretic preacher like his father,” continued the priest. “He has a quiet berth of it here, meanwhile, eh, Bruno? ample facilities for study.” “With a few interruptions thrown in,” replied the young man in a clear, pleasant voice. “Well, this present interruption is the Reverend Ernest Clare, though why a heretic should be reverend, I can’t say. He has rooms on the fourth floor of the third house, and ye must learn to know him by sight as soon as ye hear him comin’.” “I couldn’t help doing that,” said Bruno, looking with admiration, not unmixed with confusion, at his visitor’s stalwart physique. “But I hope Mr. Clare did not understand me to complain”— “Not at all,” said Ernest Clare, extending his hand and pressing Bruno’s cordially. “I find it harder myself to rejoice in interruptions than in any other minor trial of this life; but in your case I should think them not only an excellent drill in patience, but also a fine opportunity to study human nature.” “That’s very true, Mr. Clare, thank you, sir,” said the young man. “Ye villain! but ye’re a true Irishman!” said Father McClosky, as they walked on. “There ye’ve preached that lad a sermon, and given him a staff to help him on, with just a turn of your smooth tongue.” “A staff? Oh! you mean that suggestion about interruptions. I should rather call that a fly-fan,” said Ernest Clare with a twinkle in his eye and a twist of the corner of his firm lips that made his Irish blood still more evident. He was, indeed, a native-born American; but his father had left rather a different class in Ireland from that to which McClosky _père_ belonged, to be equally hardworking and almost equally poor in America. The sons had spent their early youth together until Bryan had been taken charge of, at his father’s death, by the Church, to be educated for a priest. Later in life they had met again; but if there were any bond between them, formed at that time, and of special strength and tenderness, it was such as would have estranged ordinary men, and even between these was only tacitly understood. Neither had ever put it into words. “I suppose Herr Bruno is one of your heretics,” continued Mr. Clare; “if I like your Jews, Turks, and Infidels as well in proportion, Bryan”—