"Is his mail sent here ?" "What?
His letters ?" "Yes." "He don't have any--not one since he's been wid us." "Anybody come to see him ?" "Niver a soul." The priest ruminated for a moment more, and then said slowly, as if his mind were made up: "It does not matter; somebody or something has hurt him, and he has gone off to die by himself.

In the old days such men sought the monasteries; to-day they try to lose themselves in the crowd." Again he ruminated, the delicate antennae of his hands meeting each other at the tips.
"A most extraordinary case," he said at last.

"No malice, no bitterness--yet eating his heart out.

Pitiful, really; and the worst thing about it is that you can't help him, for his secret will die with him.

Bring him to me sometime, and let me know before you come so I may be at home." "You don't think there's anything crooked about him, Father, do you ?" said John, who had sat tilted back against the wall and now brought the front legs of his chair to the floor with a bang.
"What do you mean by crooked.