The boy lay curled up on the seat--a newsboy, by the papers that had slipped from his arms. But he did not look businesslike, and he did not suggest the advantages of being poor in America. One does not become a capitalist or president by going to church and to sleep in the best of business hours, from four to six, when the streets are stirring with men on their way to dinners, cigars and evening papers. The steps of St. Catherine's are not a bad place to sell papers after Vespers, and one might as well go in, to be sure, and be warm while the service lasts; only, as I said, if one falls asleep, one does not become a capitalist or president immediately. Father Harra considered, and Dennis waited respectfully. “It's making plans I am against your natural rest, Dennis. I'm that inconsiderate of your feelings to think of keeping St. Catherine's open this night. And why? Look ye, Dennis. St. Catherine's is getting itself consecrated these days, being new, and of course--But I tell ye, Dennis, it's a straight church doctrine that the blessings of the poor are a good assistance to the holy wather.” “An' me wid children of me own to be missin' their father this Christmas Eve!” began Dennis indignantly. “Who wouldn't mind, the little villains, if their father had another dollar of Christmas morning to buy 'em presents.” “Ah, well,” said the sexton, “yer riverence is that persuadin'.” “It's plain enough for ye to see yourself, Dennis, though thick-headed somewhat. There you are: 'Come unto me, weary and heavy-laden;' and here he is. Plain enough. And who are the weary and heavy-laden in this city?” “Yer riverence will be meanin' everybody,” chuckled Dennis. “Think so? Rich and poor and all? Stuff! I don't believe it. Not to-night. It'll be the outcasts, I'm thinking, Dennis. Come on.” “An' the b'y, yer riverence?” “The what? Oh, why, yes, yes. He's all right. I don't see anything the matter with him. He's come.” It was better weather to go with the wind than against it, for the snow drove in gritty particles, and the sidewalks made themselves disagreeable and apt to slip out from under a person. Little spurts of snow danced up St. Catherine's roofs and went off the ridgepoles in puffs. It ought to snow on Christmas Eve; but it rightly should snow with better manners and not be so cold. The groceries closed early. Freiburger, the saloon man, looked over the curtains of his window. “I don't know vat for Fater Harra tack up dings dis time by his kirch door, 'Come--come in here.' Himmel! der Irishman!” Father Harra turned in to his supper, and thought how he would trouble Father Conner's reputation for enterprise and what a fine bit of constructive ability himself was possessed of.