"But Clara," he broke in,--"I wouldn't in any way interfere with your church work. I'd even go with you every Sunday, and you could pay the preacher as much as you liked. Don't you see, dear, it couldn't possibly make any difference?" "You don't understand, George," she answered, "and I can't make you see it; there's no use talking, I _can't_, until you change your ideas about--" The door opened and a weary, hungry, unshaven face looked in.--The door opened wider and a figure came shuffling timidly toward the man and girl. "What do you want?" said Udell, gruffly, a little put out at such an interruption. "Are you the foreman of this office?" said the newcomer. "Yes, I'm the boss." "Do you need any help? I'm a printer." "You a printer?" exclaimed Udell. "What's the matter?--No,"--he interrupted himself.-"Never mind what the matter is. I don't care if you're wanted for horse stealing. Can you go to work now?" The man nodded. Udell showed him to a case and placed copy before him. "There you are, and the faster you work the better I'll pay you." Again the other nodded, and without a word caught up a stick and reached for the type. George turned back to Clara who had risen. "Don't go yet," he said. "Oh, yes, I must; I have been here too long now; you have so much to do; I only wanted to get that society printing." George handed her the package. "Who is he?" she whispered, with a look toward the newcomer. "Don't know; some bum I suppose; looks like he had been on a big spree. I only hope I can keep him sober long enough to help me over this rush." "You're wrong there," said the girl, moving toward the door, "He asked for work at our house early this morning; that man is no drunkard, neither is he a common tramp." "How do you know?" "Same as I know you, by the looks," laughed Clara. "Go talk to him and find out. You see your prayer was answered, even if you did pray like a church member. Who knows, perhaps the wire is not down after all," and she was gone. The printer turned to his work again with a lighter heart for this bit of brightness. Somehow he felt that things would come out all right some day, and he would do the best he could to be patient; and, for Clara's sake, while he could not be all she wished, he would make of himself all that he could. For a while, he was very busy with some work in the rear of the office; then remembering Clara's strange words about the tramp, he went over to the case where the new man sat perched upon his high stool. The stranger was working rapidly and doing good work. George noticed though, that the hand which held the stick trembled; and that sometimes a letter dropped from the nervous fingers. "What's the matter?" he asked, eyeing him keenly. The man, without lifting his head, muttered, "Nothing." "Are you sick?" A shake of the head was the only answer. "Been drinking?"