The maid came in with his coffee and he lighted his pipe. In a moment the bell rang and Ellerslie entered, his face flushed, his hands hanging nervously before him. He sat down in the chair, still warm from the vision of Mariana, and Father Algarcife looked at him with a sudden contraction of remorse. For the first time he winced before the glance of another--of a girlish-looking boy with a tremulous voice and an honest heart. He was looking into the fire when Ellerslie spoke. "I want you to meet my mother," he said. "You know she is coming to town next week. She is very anxious to know you; I have written so often about you." The other looked up. "Next week--ah, yes," he responded. He was thinking that by that time he would have passed beyond the praise or blame of Ellerslie and his mother--he would be with Mariana. The younger man went on, still flushing. "She often sends you messages which I don't deliver. She has never forgotten that illness you nursed me through five years ago." Father Algarcife shook his head slightly, his eyes on the flames that played among the coals. "She must not exaggerate that," he answered. Ellerslie opened his mouth, but closed it without speaking. His shyness had overcome him. For a time they were silent, and then Father Algarcife looked up. "John," he said. "Yes?" "If--if things should ever occur to--to shake your faith in me, you will always remember that I tried to do my best by the parish--that I tried to serve it as faithfully as Father Speares would have done?" Ellerslie started. "Of course," he answered--"of course. But why do you say this? Could anything shake my faith in you? I would take your word against--against the bishop's." Father Algarcife smiled. "And against myself?" he asked, but added, "I am grateful, John." When Ellerslie had gone, a man from the Bowery came in to recount a story of suffering. He had just served a year in jail, and did not want to go back. He preferred to live straight. But it took money to do that. His wife, who made shirts, and belonged to Father Algarcife's mission, had sent him to the priest. As he told his story he squirmed uneasily on the edge of Mariana's chair, twirling his shapeless hat in the hands hanging between his knees. The dog crouched against his master's feet, growling suspiciously. Father Algarcife rested his head against the cushioned back, and regarded the man absently. He believed the man's tale, and he sympathized with his philosophy. It was preferable to live straight, but it took money to do so. Indeed, the wisest of preachers had once remarked that "money answereth all things." He wondered how nearly the preacher spoke the truth, and if he would have recognized a demonstration of his text in the man before him with the shapeless hat. Then he asked his caller a few questions, promised to look into his case on Monday, and dismissed him.