"She is doing well," the white one would answer, in a tone of thin sincerity. Then Jeremiah would go back to Ridpath, miserable, and unconvinced. Once in a while he would hear Cecilia's high, little voice—"Keefer, the butler!" she repeated again and again one day. She said it in gasps, but somehow got out the words. The effort in her voice had cut Jeremiah's heart, but the words had brought a proud smile. 

 "Associatin' with butlers!" he whispered. "Ain't she gettin' fine?" 

 Then Cecilia moaned of butter dishes, blue ones. Jeremiah had left his post and Ridpath's History long enough to go shopping. He bought her three butter dishes. Two of them had covers. The third boasted of a curling handle, on which perched a dove and a cupid, on a spray of something that looked like spinach in the crude state. Cecilia had been very pleased with them. She had looked on them, said, "T-thank you, dearest!" and then cried gently, the tears slipping down her face with pathetic regularity. She cried all that afternoon. 

 "I'm not good enough for you!" she gasped, "but I love you, and butter dishes!" 

 CHAPTER VIII A LITTLE TOUCH OF THE MAN WITH THE HOUR GLASS 

 Time had been careful with Father McGowan. Perhaps he thought Father McGowan rather nice as he was, and unneedful of the lines that usually come with heart and soul expansion. Be this as it may, the fact was that he was little changed. The lenses in his glasses were a bit thicker. He had accumulated a little more tummy in the last seven years, but he still played Indian and exile in Sieberia with the same joy, and he was still the true father to every child who knew him. 

 He sat behind a bare table in a room unbeautiful except for the books which lined its walls. He was looking over his mail. He laid one letter with a foreign postmark aside. 

 There was a tap on the door. A small boy of nine, or thereabout, came in, sobbing wildly. "My mom, she sez you're a Catholic!" he gasped between sobs.  "Yuh ain't, are yuh?" 

 "I'm afraid so," answered Father McGowan. He looked very guilty. 

 "Oh, dear!" replied the small boy, and sobbed more loudly. 

 "Now, now!" said Father McGowan.  "We can't all be Methodists, you know. The church wouldn't hold 'em.". The child still sobbed. "I'll tell you," went on Father McGowan; "you pray that we'll 

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