and rosy.

All the Irish ingenuity and artistry in Aloysius came to the surface
as he dived again and again into the great barrel and brought up the
glittering pieces.

"It'll make an elegant window," he gasped from the depths of the hay,
his lean, lengthy frame jack-knifed over the edge. "And cheap." His
shrewd wit had long ago divined the store's price mark. "If Father
Fitzpatrick steps by in the forenoon I'll bet they'll be gone before
nighttime to-morrow. You'll be letting me do the trim, Mrs. Brandeis?"

He came back that evening to do it, and he threw his whole soul into it,
which, considering his ancestry and temperament, was very high voltage
for one small-town store window. He covered the floor of the window with
black crepe paper, and hung it in long folds, like a curtain, against
the rear wall. The gilt of the scepters, and halos, and capes showed up
dazzlingly against this background. The scarlets, and pinks, and blues,
and whites of the robes appeared doubly bright. The whole made a picture
that struck and held you by its vividness and contrast.

Father Fitzpatrick, very tall and straight, and handsome, with his
iron-gray hair and his cheeks pink as a girl's, did step by next morning
on his way to the post-office. It was whispered that in his youth Father
Fitzpatrick had been an actor, and that he had deserted the footlights
for the altar lights because of a disappointment. The drama's loss was
the Church's gain. You should have heard him on Sunday morning, now
flaying them, now swaying them! He still had the actor's flexible voice,
vibrant, tremulous, or strident, at will. And no amount of fasting or
praying had ever dimmed that certain something in his eye--the something
which makes the matinee idol.

Not only did he step by now; he turned, came back; stopped before the
window. Then he entered.

"Madam," he said to Mrs. Brandeis, "you'll probably save more souls with
your window display than I could in a month of hell-fire sermons." He
raised his hand. "You have the sanction of the Church." Which was the
beginning of a queer friendship between the Roman Catholic priest and
the Jewess shopkeeper that lasted as long as Molly Brandeis lived.

By noon it seemed that the entire population of Winnebago had turned
devout. The figures, a tremendous bargain, though sold at a high profit,
seemed to melt away from the counter that held them.

By three o'clock, "Only one to a customer!" announced Mrs. Brand