"I'm a silly fool, I suppose," she murmured, turning back into the room

again.

It was ten o'clock when the colonel bade his guests good night as they

tumbled out of his motor-boat. They were in more or less exuberant

spirits; for the colonel knew how to do two things particularly well:

order a dinner, and avoid the many traps set for him by scheming mamas and

eligible widows. Abbott, the Barone and Harrigan, arm in arm, marched on

ahead, whistling one tune in three different keys, while Courtlandt set

the pace for the padre.

All through the dinner the padre had watched and listened. Faces were

generally books to him, and he read in this young man's face many things

that pleased him. This was no night rover, a fool over wine and women, a

spendthrift. He straightened out the lines and angles in a man's face as a

skilled mathematician elucidates an intricate geometrical problem. He had

arrived at the basic knowledge that men who live mostly out of doors are

not volatile and irresponsible, but are more inclined to reserve, to

reticence, to a philosophy which is broad and comprehensive and generous.

They are generally men who are accomplishing things, and who let other

people tell about it. Thus, the padre liked Courtlandt's voice, his

engaging smile, his frank unwavering eyes; and he liked the leanness about

the jaws, which was indicative of strength of character. In fact, he

experienced a singular jubilation as he walked beside this silent man.

"There has been a grave mistake somewhere," he mused aloud, thoughtfully.

"I beg your pardon," said Courtlandt.

"I beg yours. I was thinking aloud. How long have you known the

Harrigans?"

"The father and mother I never saw before to-day."

"Then you have met Miss Harrigan?"

"I have seen her on the stage."

"I have the happiness of being her confessor."

They proceeded quite as far as a hundred yards before Courtlandt

volunteered: "That must be interesting."

"She is a good Catholic."

"Ah, yes; I recollect now."

"And you?"

"Oh, I haven't any religion such as requires my presence in churches.

Don't misunderstand me! As a boy I was bred in the Episcopal Church; but I

have traveled so much that I have drifted out of the circle. I find that

when I am out in the open, in the heart of some great waste, such as a

desert, a sea, the top of a mountain, I can see the greatness of the

Omnipotent far more clearly and humbly than within the walls of a

cathedral."

"But God imposes obligations upon mankind. We have ceased to look upon the

hermit as a holy man, but rather as one devoid of courage. It is not the

stone and the stained windows; it is the text of our daily work, that the

physical being of the Church represents."




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