heights, the river flowing dark and silent, he began
to be conscious of his situation. Yes, he was very tired. It seemed
difficult to go on without help of some sort. At length he crossed
the bridge. Lights were gleaming from the saloons along the street.
He paused in front of one, irresolute. Food he could not taste, but
something he must have to carry him on. But no, that would not do; he
could not enter that in his priest's garb. He dragged himself along
until he came to a drug-shop, the modern saloon of the respectably
virtuous. That he entered, and sat down on a stool by the soda-water
counter. The expectant clerk stared at him while waiting the order, his
hand tentatively seeking one of the faucets of refreshment.

"I feel a little feverish," said the father. "You may give me five
grains of quinine in whisky."

"That'll put you all right," said the boy as he handed him the mixture.
"It's all the go now."

It seemed to revive him, and he went out and walked on towards the
heights. Somehow, seeing this boy, coming back to common life, perhaps
the strong and unaccustomed stimulant, gave a new shade to his thoughts.
He was safe. Presently he would be at the Retreat. He would rest, and
then gird up his loins and face life again. The mood lasted for some
time. And when the sense of physical weariness came back, that seemed to
dull the acuteness of his spiritual torment. It was late when he reached
the house and rang the night-bell. No one of the brothers was up except
Father Monies, and it was he who came to the door.

"You! So late! Is anything the matter?"

"I needed to come," the father said, simply, and he grasped the
door-post, steadying himself as he came in.

"You look like a ghost."

"Yes. I'm tired. I walked."

"Walked? From Rivington Street?"

"Nearly. I felt like it."

"It's most imprudent. You dined first?"

"I wasn't hungry."

"But you must have something at once." And Father Monies hurried away,
heated some bouillon by a spirit-lamp, and brought it, with bread, and
set it before his unexpected guest.

"There, eat that, and get to bed as soon as you can. It was great
nonsense."

And Father Damon obeyed. Indeed, he was too exhausted to talk.

XVII

Father Damon slept the sleep of exhaustion. In this for a time the mind
joined in the lethargy of the body. But presently, as the vital currents
were aroused, the mind began to play its fantastic tricks. He was a
seminary student, he