She looked across the park with eyes that saw Beaconhite, the dignified street on which Miss Braithwaite lived in its most dignified house; the street where St. Francis Xavier’s church stood; the garden of its adjoining school; Father Morley’s thin figure with its drooping shoulders; the altar within the church, its lamp, her soul’s home. Beaconhite was her true home. Some day, she thought, please God, she would go back. And then her eyes became cognizant of her present surroundings. She saw at a little distance from her, a tawdry, shabby woman sitting upon a park bench, although it was cold, and her silken clothes were thin. There was no mistaking her, even afar, for anything but one of those derelicts which sin, having floated them prosperously for a time, throws up against the barriers of civilized society to be dashed to pieces, or caught up by a pitying lifeguard, as the case may be. As Cicely noted her, bringing her thoughts back to what was before her, the woman covertly drew something out from the sleeve of her coat, and picked at it. A bottle! And she was pulling the cork! Cis sprang forward and ran, not delaying for a word to Tom, flying toward the wretched being on the bench. As she reached her the woman, who had seen her fleeting toward her, raised the bottle to her lips. Cis sprang; leaped the last lap of her race against suicide; threw herself, as a ball player throws himself against the base, and struck the woman’s elbow. The bottle fell in myriad pieces on the walk, scenting the air with the odor of peach stones. The woman crumbled up and slid to the ground. For one instant she and her rescuer were beside each other upon the walk. Then Cis regained her feet and stood looking down upon the degraded figure before her, horror, loathing, yet divine pity in her flushed face. This was the tableau which Tom, hastening after Cis, saw as he came up. “For heaven’s sake, Cis?” he questioned her without formulating his question. “Oh, yes, Tom, for heaven’s sake!” cried Cis. “I just made it. If the police come up and catch us, she’ll be taken in for attempted suicide. We must get her somewhere, quick.” “Well, what if she is taken in?” Tom disgustedly asked, hating to see Cis in proximity to this woman. “She’ll be looked after by the matron.” “Oh, no! She must be saved, if she can be. Arrest won’t save her. Can you hear me? Answer me. Were you a Catholic?” Cis asked, bending over the collapsed figure. “Once I was,” the woman muttered. Cis straightened herself triumphantly. “The Good Shepherd!” she cried. “Tom, help me to get her up. You poor thing, get up! We are going to take care of you. Get up.” Tom reluctantly, yet admiring Cis, lifted the castaway, and, staggering, she made out to stand. “Let me alone; I’m sick,” she moaned. “Yes, we know. Try to come with us. I’m afraid a policeman will come along,” Cis urged her.