enough, and comes straight to me. We never met
but once. Therefore not a man in the world would have thought of looking
for him at my house. A week later he is transferred to the house of Judy
Trainor, who has been expecting a sick son from California, a boy who
disappeared ten years previous and is probably dead. I arrange her
expectation, and the neighbors are invited to rejoice with her over the
finding of her son. He spends a month or two in the house recovering
from his illness, and when he appears in public he knows as much about
the past of Tommy Trainor as Tommy ever knew. He is welcomed by his old
friends. They recognize him from his resemblance to his father, old
Micky Trainor. He slips into his position comfortably, and in five years
the whole neighborhood would go to court and swear Tims into a lunatic
asylum if he ever tried to resume his own personality."

The two men set up a shout at this sound conclusion.

"After all, there are consequences as dark as the gallows," said Horace.

"For instance," said the priest with a wave of his hand, "sleeping under
the eyes of these painted ghosts."

"Poor Tim Hurley," said Horace, "little he thought he'd be a ghost
to-night."

"He's not to be regretted," replied the other, "except for the heart
that suffers by his absence. He is with God. Death is the one moment of
our career when we throw ourselves absolutely into the arms of God."

The two were getting ready to slip between the sheets of the pompous
colonial bed, when Horace began to laugh softly to himself. He kept up
the chuckling until they were lying side by side in the darkened room.

"I am sure, I have a share in that chuckle," said Monsignor.

"Shades of my ancestors," murmured Horace, "forgive this insult to your
pious memory--that I should occupy one bed with an idolatrous priest."

"They have got over all that. In eternity there is no bigotry. But what
a pity that two fine boys like us should be kept apart by that awful
spirit which prompts men to hate one another for the love of God, and to
lie like slaves for the pure love of truth."

"I am cured," said Horace, placing his hand on the Monsignor's arm. "I
shall never again overlook the human in a man. Let me thank you,
Monsignor, for this opening of my eyes. I shall never forget it. This
night has been Arabian in its enchantment. I don't like the idea of
to-morrow."

"No more do I. Life is tiresome in a way. For me it is an everlasting
job of