was in would he speak to Mr.
Hodder, of St. John's?... An interval, during which Hodder was suddenly
struck with this designation of himself. Was he still of St. John's,
then? An aeon might have elapsed since he had walked down the white
marble of its aisle toward the crouching figure in the pew. He was not
that man, but another--and still Mr. Hodder, of St. John's.... Then he
heard the specialist say, "Hello, Mr. Hodder, what can I do for you?"
Heard his own voice in reply, explaining the case. Could the doctor
find time? The doctor could: he was never too busy to attend to the
poor,--though he did not say so: he would be there--by half-past six.
The rector hung up the receiver, opened the door of the booth and mopped
his brow, for the heat was stifling.

"The doctor will go," he explained in answer to Mr. Bentley's inquiring
look.

"Now, sir," said the old gentleman, when they were out of the store,
"we have done all that we can for the time being. I do not live far from
here. Perhaps you would give me the pleasure of taking supper with me,
if you have no other engagement."

No other engagement! Not until then did Hodder remember his empty rooms
in the parish house, and the train which was to have borne him away from
all this already speeding northward. He accepted gratefully, nor did
he pause to speculate upon the mystery by which the stream of his life
seemed so suddenly to have been diverted. He had, indeed, no sense of
mystery in the presence of this splendidly sane, serene old man, any
more than the children who ran after him from the dingy yards and
passages, calling his name, clinging to the skirts of his coat. These
accepted him simply as an anomalous fact in their universe, grinned at
his pleasantries, and held up grimy little hands for the kidney-shaped
candy beans he drew forth from his capacious pockets. In the intervals
he reminisced to the rector about the neighbourhood.

"It seems but a short while ago when the trees met overhead--magnificent
trees they were. The asphalt and the soot killed them. And there were
fruit trees in that yard"--he pointed with his stick to a littered sun
parched plot adjoining a battered mansion--"all pink and white with
blossoms in the spring. Mr. Hadley lived there--one of our forgotten
citizens. He is dead and gone now and his family scattered. That other
house, where the boy lies, belonged to Mr. Villars, a relation of the
Atterbury family, and I can recall very well a