those years he had
occupied, day after day, the solitude of a little confessional in the
chapel. He had had his penitents there, and, in a general way, the
brethren of San Ambrogio knew that there were among them many
distinguished ones; but they were not prepared for the revelation that
his obsequies gave them. Cardinals, Roman nobles, soldiers, prelates,
priests and citizens crowded into the little chapel. They were those
who had knelt week after week at the feet of the saint.

But there was one penitent, greater than them all in dignity and
sanctity, who could not come. The tears blinded him that morning when
he said Mass in his own chapel at the Vatican for the soul of Father
Denfili. At the hour of the requiem he looked longingly toward Via
Paoli, where his old spiritual father was lying dead before the altar
of the cloister chapel; and the tears came again into eyes that needed
all their vision to gaze far out, from his watch-tower, on the City
and the World.

THE FLAMING CROSS

I.

It was already midnight when Orville, Thornton and Callovan arose from
a table of the club dining-room and came down in the elevator for
their hats and coats. They had spent an evening together, delightful
to all three. This dinner and chat had become an annual affair, to
give the old chums of St. Wilbur's a chance to live over college days,
and keep a fine friendship bright and lasting. Not one of them was old
enough to feel much change from the spirit of youth. St. Wilbur's was
a fresh memory and a pleasant one; and no friends of business or
society had grown half so precious for any one of these three men as
were the other two, whom the old college had introduced and had bound
to him.

The difference in the appearance of the friends was very marked.
Thornton had kept his promise of growing up as he had started: short,
fat and jovial. Baldness was beginning to show at thirty-five. His
stubby mustache was as unmanageable as the masters of St. Wilbur's had
found its owner to be. He had never affected anything, for he had
always been openly whatever he allowed himself to drift into. Neither
of his friends liked many of his actions, nor the stories told of
him; but they liked him personally and were inclined to be silently
sorry for him, but not to sit in judgment upon him. Both Orville and
Callovan waited and hoped for "old Thornton"; but the wait had been
long and the hope very much deferred.

Callovan was frankly Iri