could not get. The
nurse said that he had uncommon strength of will.

These were happy hours, imagining what the boy would be, planning what
she would make his life, hours enjoyed as a traveler enjoys wayside
flowers, snatched before an approaching storm. It is a pity, the nurse
would say, that his father cannot see him now. And at the thought Edith
could only see the child through tears, and a great weight rested on her
heart in all this happiness.

XVI

When Father Damon parted from Edith he seemed to himself strengthened
in his spirit. His momentary outburst had shown him where he stood-the
strength of his fearful temptation. To see it was to be able to conquer
it. He would humiliate himself; he would scourge himself; he would fast
and pray; he would throw himself more unreservedly into the service of
his Master. He had been too compromising with sin and sinners, and with
his own weakness and sin, the worst of all.

The priest walked swiftly through the wintry streets, welcoming as a
sort of penance the biting frost which burned his face and penetrated
his garments. He little heeded the passers in the streets, those who
hurried or those who loitered, only, if he met or passed a woman or
a group of girls, he instinctively drew himself away and walked more
rapidly. He strode on uncompromisingly, and his clean-shaved face was
set in rigid lines. Those who saw him pass would have said that there
went an ascetic bent on judgment. Many who did know him, and who
ordinarily would have saluted him, sure of a friendly greeting, were
repelled by his stern face and determined air, and made no sign. The
father had something on his mind.

As he turned into Rivington Street there approached him from the
opposite direction a girl, walking slowly and undecidedly. When he came
near her she looked up, with an appealing recognition. In a flash of
the quick passing he thought he knew her--a girl who had attended his
mission and whom he had not seen for several months-but he made no sign
and passed on.

"Father Damon!"

He turned about short at the sound of the weak, pleading voice, but with
no relaxation of his severe, introverted mood. "Well?"

It was the girl he remembered. She wore a dress of silk that had once
been fine, and over it an ample cloak that had quite lost its freshness,
and a hat still gay with cheap flowers. Her face, which had a sweet and
almost innocent expression, was drawn and anxious. The eyes were