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had been paying further up the house； he went into the room whence
the sound came； for he knew a little of the occupant。 He was one De
Fleuri； or as the neighbours called him； Diffleery； in whose
countenance； after generations of want and debasement； the delicate
lines and noble cast of his ancient race were yet emergent。 This
man had lost his wife and three children； his whole family except a
daughter now sick； by a slow…consuming hunger； and he did not
believe there was a God that ruled in the earth。 But he supported
his unbelief by no other argument than a hopeless bitter glance at
his empty loom。 At this moment he sat silenta rock against which
the noisy waves of a combative Bible…reader were breaking in rude
foam。 His silence and apparent impassiveness angered the irreverent
little worthy。 To Falconer's humour he looked a vulgar bull…terrier
barking at a noble； sad…faced staghound。 His foolish arguments
against infidelity； drawn from Paley's Natural Theology； and tracts
about the inspiration of the Bible； touched the sore…hearted
unbelief of the man no nearer than the clangour of negro kettles
affects the eclipse of the sun。 Falconer stood watching his
opportunity。 Nor was the eager disputant long in affording him one。
Socratic fashion； Falconer asked him a question； and was answered；
followed it with another； which； after a little hesitation； was
likewise answered； then asked a third； the ready answer to which
involved such a flagrant contradiction of the first； that the poor
sorrowful weaver burst into a laugh of delight at the discomfiture
of his tormentor。 After some stammering； and a confused attempt to
recover the line of argument； the would…be partizan of Deity roared
out； 'The fool hath said in his heart there is no God；' and with
this triumphant discharge of his swivel； turned and ran down the
stairs precipitately。
Both laughed while the sound of his footsteps lasted。 Then Falconer
said；
'My。 De Fleuri； I believe in God with all my heart； and soul； and
strength； and mind； though not in that poor creature's arguments。 I
don't know that your unbelief is not better than his faith。'
'I am greatly obliged to you； Mr。 Falconer。 I haven't laughed so
for years。 What right has he to come pestering me？'
'None whatever。 But you must forgive him； because he is
well…meaning； and because his conceit has made a fool of him。
They're not all like him。 But how is your daughter？'
'Very poorly； sir。 She's going after the rest。 A Spitalfields
weaver ought to be like the cats： they don't mind how many of their
kittens are drowned。'
'I beg your pardon。 They don't like it。 Only they forget it sooner
than we do。'
'Why do you say we； sir？ You don't know anything of that sort。'
'The heart knows its own bitterness； De Fleuriand finds it enough；
I dare say。'
The weaver was silent for a moment。 When he spoke again； there was
a touch of tenderness in his respect。
'Will you go and see my poor Katey； sir？'
'Would she like to see me？'
'It does her good to see you。 I never let that fellow go near her。
He may worry me as he pleases； but she shall die in peace。 That is
all I can do for her。'
'Do you still persist in refusing helpfor your daughterI don't
mean for yourself？'
Not believing in God； De Fleuri would not be obliged to his fellow。
Falconer had never met with a similar instance。
'I do。 I won't kill her； and I won't kill myself： I am not bound to
accept charity。 It's all right。 I only want to leave the whole
affair behind； and I sincerely hope there's nothing to come after。
If I were God； I should be ashamed of such a mess of a world。'
'Well； no doubt you would have made something more to your mindand
better； too； if all you see were all there is to be seen。 But I
didn't send that bore away to bore you myself。 I'm going to see
Katey。'
'Very well； sir。 I won't go up with you； for I won't interfere with
what you think proper to say to her。'
'That's rather like faith somewhere！' thought Falconer。 'Could that
man fail to believe in Jesus Christ if he only saw himanything
like as he is？'
Katey lay in a room overhead； for though he lacked food； this man
contrived to pay for a separate room for his daughter； whom he
treated with far more respect than many gentlemen treat their wives。
Falconer found her lying on a wretched bed。 Still it was a bed；
and many in the same house had no bed to lie on。 He had just come
from a room overhead where lived a widow with four children。 All of
them lay on a floor whence issued at night； by many holes； awful
rats。 The children could not sleep for horror。 They did not mind
the little ones； they said； but when the big ones came； they were
awake all night。
'Well； Katey； how are you？'
'No better； thank God。'
She spoke as her father had taught her。 Her face was worn and thin；
but hardly death…like。 Only extremes met in itthe hopelessness
had turned through quietude into comfort。 Her hopelessness affected
him more than her father's。 But there was nothing he could do for
her。
There came a tap at the door。
'Come in；' said Falconer； involuntarily。
A lady in the dress of a Sister of Mercy entered with a large basket
on her arm。 She started； and hesitated for a moment when she saw
him。 He rose； thinking it better to go。 She advanced to the
bedside。 He turned at the door； and said；
'I won't say good…bye yet； Katey； for I'm going to have a chat with
your father； and if you will let me； I will look in again。'
As he turned he saw the lady kiss her on the forehead。 At the sound
of his voice she started again； left the bedside and came towards
him。 Whether he knew her by her face or her voice first； he could
not tell。
'Robert；' she said； holding out her hand。
It was Mary St。 John。 Their hands met； joined fast； and lingered； as
they gazed each in the other's face。 It was nearly fourteen years
since they had parted。 The freshness of youth was gone from her
cheek； and the signs of middle age were present on her forehead。
But she was statelier； nobler； and gentler than ever。 Falconer
looked at her calmly； with only a still swelling at the heart； as if
they met on the threshold of heaven。 All the selfishness of passion
was gone； and the old earlier adoration； elevated and glorified； had
returned。 He was a boy once more in the presence of a woman…angel。
She did not shrink from his gaze； she did not withdraw her hand
from his clasp。
'I am so glad； Robert！' was all she said。
'So am I；' he answered quietly。 'We may meet sometimes then？'
'Yes。 Perhaps we can help each other。'
'You can help me；' said Falconer。 'I have a girl I don't know what
to do with。'
'Send her to me。 I will take care of her。'
'I will bring her。 But I must come and see you first。'
'That will tell you where I live；' she said； giving him a card。
Good…bye。'
'Till to…morrow；' said Falconer。
'She's not like that Bible fellow；' said De Fleuri； as he entered
his room again。 'She don't walk into your house as if it was her
own。'
He was leaning against his idle loom； which； like a dead thing；
filled the place with the mournfulness of death。 Falconer took a
broken chair； the only one； and sat down。
'I am going to take a liberty with you； Mr。 De Fleuri；' he said。
'As you please； Mr。 Falconer。'
'I want to tell you the only fault I have to you。'
'Yes？'
'You don't do anything for the people in the house。 Whether you
believe in God or not； you ought to do what you can for your
neighbour。'
He held that to help a neighbour is the strongest antidote to
unbelief； and an open door out of the bad air of one's own troubles；
as well。
De Fleuri laughed bitterly； and rubbed his hand up and down his
empty pocket。 It was a pitiable action。 Falconer understood it。
'There are better things than money： sympathy； for instance。 You
could talk to them a little。'
'I have no sympathy； sir。'
'You would find you had； if you would let it out。'
'I should only make them more miserable。 If I believed as you do；
now； there might be some use。'
'There's that widow with her four children in the garret。 The poor
little things are tormented by the rats： couldn't you nail bits of
wood over their holes？'
De Fleuri laughed again。
'Where am I to get the bits of wood； except I pull down some of
those laths。 And they wouldn't keep them out a night。'
'Couldn't you ask some carpenter？'
'I won't ask a favour。'
'I shouldn't mind asking； now。'
'That's because you don't know the bitterness of needing。'
'Fortunately； however； there's no occasion for it。 You have no
right to refuse for another what you wouldn't accept for yourself。
Of course I could send in a man to do it； but if you would