She knocked quietly at the door of a room and admitted Nicholas to a small apartment fitted up like a study.

At a table near the window a grave young man was seated with writing materials before him.
"Well, mater" he said, "whom have we here?
Another of your proteges ?" "I want you to listen to this poor fellow, James," said the lady, "his story will touch you as it has touched me.

My poor man, this is my son, the Rev.James Nippit." Nickie bowed with a grace that did not belong to his tramp's garments and his insanitary and unshaven state.
"Thank God.

I have met you, sir," he said, in the voice of a strong man whose sorrows have about broken his proud spirit, "if your heart is as gentle as that of this sweet lady." The lady withdrew, and the Rev.James Nippit, who had been eyeing Mr.
Crips keenly, motioned hit to a chair.
"Be seated," he said, "and tell me your story." "I am the only son of the Rev.Arthur Crips, of Bolton, Lancashire, England," said Nickie.

"My father held a good living.