face.

"Tut, tut!" murmured Father Anton, pulling at his under lip. And then
quickly: "But wait--wait! We shall see!" And he ran into the other
room.

There were always clothes there--for his poor. The rich people, the
friends of Monsieur and Mademoiselle Bliss were always sending him
their old things for distribution amongst his poor. Mademoiselle Bliss
had sent him a package that afternoon. He remembered that there was a
long cloak and a hat amongst the other things. Ah, yes; here they
were! He held them up to look at them in the light from the doorway of
the connecting rooms. They had strange notions about "old things," the
rich! These, for example--he turned them about in the light--were as
good as new. They bought clothes one day, the rich, wore them the
afternoon, and gave them to him the next morning--because overnight
there had been created a new style! Father Anton smiled at his little
conceit. But it was almost literally true. He had seen Myrna Bliss
wearing these very things only a few days ago--the same black velvet
cloak, and the same black velvet turban with the little white cockade.
At least, he supposed it was a cockade! Ah, well--he shrugged his
shoulders--his poor were the gainers!

"Here, Marie-Louise!" he called out, returning into the front room.
"You may have these, child."

"Oh!" she exclaimed, as she took them. Her eyes widened. "Oh--they
are pretty! But--but, Father Anton, where did you get them? They are
new."

"No, not quite," he smiled; "but new enough, I think, to last you all
the winter. They were"--he stopped suddenly, in gentle tactfulness.
Marie-Louise knew Myrna Bliss--it might cause her diffidence if she
were aware that the cloak and hat had been mademoiselle's. "They were
sent to me by the rich people amongst many other things," he amended,
"to be distributed where"--he smiled again--"where I think they will do
most good. So now they are yours. Put them on, and we will go."

"Oh, Father Anton!" she cried again, in wonder at the sudden luxury
that was hers--and slipped on the cloak; and ran to the cure's shaving
glass, which was the only semblance of a mirror in evidence, to set the
turban daintily upon her head. "Dear, dear Father Anton--how good you
are!"

But Father Anton did not answer. He was brushing his threadbare black
overcoat--and making a very poor business of it. There was a great
lump in his throat that refused to go either up or down--a