rsery their children slept, two fair little girls with their
mother's pretty eyes and dainty ways. All that had been his, once upon a
time.

He still watched that vacant chair but he saw only the day they
discovered the loss of that money which had disappeared so mysteriously
from the firm's safe. Suspicion rested upon that one true friend of his,
the friend to whom he owed all he was, all he had. There was not
sufficient evidence to prove that he was the thief, but in the minds of
his employers there was no doubt as to his guilt. The supposed
delinquent was dismissed and the cloud of suspicion rested upon him
wherever he went thereafter. Only two people had known the truth, the
man now sitting by the stove in the tenement house kitchen and the
friend who had suffered in silence rather than betray him. They had
never met again, and not long after the robbery, the man now sitting by
the stove had heard of his friend's death; the physicians said it was
typhoid, but he knew better. Disappointment, anxiety, heartbreak, were
the real causes of his friend's early taking off.

He still gazed at the empty chair but he saw only the series of
misfortunes that had befallen him since the day his friend died. He had
launched into business on his own account; the result was dire disaster.
His home was burned in the dead of night; they barely escaped with their
lives. Everything was gone; there was no insurance and ruin and despair
confronted them. His children died suddenly of a malignant fever and the
heartbroken mother had followed them to the grave within a few weeks. He
was alone, all alone, and from that day to this had gone steadily
downward until now he found himself in this dirty tenement depending for
his daily bread upon the faded, ragged little woman who was now his
wife. Poor Maggie, how she irritated him at times and yet she had been
a good faithful wife to him. But for her, they would not have even this
miserable apology for a home. Yes, even Maggie, with her watery eyes and
thin, unkempt hair, Maggie, who scrubbed floors for a living and could
not write so much as her own name nor read the simplest child's primer;
even Maggie was far too good for the worn-out drunkard and gambler whom
she tended so faithfully.

A light tap upon the door, but the man by the stove was too much
occupied with those phantoms of the past to pay heed to it. The door
opened quietly and a priest stepped into the room. The man's gaze
shifted