He grew into my life. I depended upon him and he did not fail me.
“Richelieu,” I would often say, “had his Friar Philip to aid him in his ambitions and I have my good friend Sullivan.”
Then as the months passed, once again, the grass spread its delicate carpet beneath our feet, the trees blossomed sending a perfumed message to us, the bluebird and the thrush called through the open windows until we, busy with our work, were forced to remark that Spring time had come—the beginning of another year.... Then the Brothers observed the progress we had made in the twelvemonth.... It seemed so much to them, so little to the outside world.
“It looks more prosperous now,” said Sullivan proudly as he observed the automobiles stopping at the door, “you make Prince as well as Pauper do you homage.”
“No, Sullivan, not I; it’s the Truth that all are hungry for—Pauper and Prince alike—and while the few may reach it by meditation and the more by prayer, the most of common clay like you and I must reach it by service.”
“I never quite understand you when you speak,” he said, “I never could read those dry old books however much I tried.... But by the way, I wonder if we have blankets for the new arrival who just came in.”
For the Stranded Sons of the City come often to join our Family and share our simple hospitality.
“Sullivan,” I said one day, “this work is going to grow and grow.... When we have won I want you to share the credit with me—you will remain, will you not?”