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