"But that was before I had a candidate," she answered. They followed her to the sidewalk and tucked her carriage furs about her while the footman looked on. "And you are coming to see me soon?" she insisted--"very soon?" "We swear it!" they protested. "And you will tell me all the news of the elections?" "On our manly faith." "That I will trust. Good-bye!" "Good-bye!" The carriage started, when suddenly she lowered the window and looked out, the plume in her hat waving black against the wind. "I forgot to tell you," she said; "my name is Gore--Mrs. Cecil Gore." With the light of audacity in his face, Nevins laid his hand upon the window. "And where is the Honorable Cecil?" he asked. A flash of irritation darkened Mariana's eyes. She laughed with a ring of recklessness. "The Lord forbid that I should know!" she replied. She motioned to the coachman, and the carriage rolled rapidly away. Nevins stood looking after it until it turned the corner. When the last wheel vanished, he spoke slowly: "Well, I'll be blessed!" he said. Ardly stooped and picked up a violet that lay upon the curbing. "And so will I," he responded. "Have a whiskey?" "All right." They entered the building and mounted the stairs in silence. CHAPTER VI The Reverend Anthony Algarcife had inspired his congregation with an almost romantic fervor. When he had first appeared before them as assistant to Father Speares in his Bowery Mission, and a little later as server in the celebrations, they regarded him as a thoughtful-eyed young priest, whose appearance fitted into the general scheme of color in the chancel. When he read the lessons they noticed the richness of his voice, and when at last he came to the altar-step to deliver his first sermon they thrilled into the knowledge of his power. But he turned from their adulations almost impatiently to throw himself into the mission in the slums. His eloquence had passed from the rich to the poor, and beyond an occasional sermon he became only a harmonious figure in the setting of the church. For the honors they meted out to him he had no glance, for their favors he had only indifference. He seemed as insensible to praise as to censure, and to the calls of ambition his ears were closed. He lived in the fevered haste of a man who has but one end remaining--to have life over. But his indifference redounded to his honor. Because he shunned popularity, it fell upon him; because he put aside personal gains, he found them in the reverence of his people. His apathy was construed into humility, his compassion into loving-kindness, his endeavors to stifle memory into the fires of faith. At the end of six years his determination to remain a cipher in religion had made him the leader of his church, and the means which he had taken to annihilate self had drawn on him the wondering eyes of his world. Almost unconsciously he bowed his head to receive the yoke.