It seemed to revive him, and he went out and walked on towards the heights. Somehow, seeing this boy, coming back to common life, perhaps the strong and unaccustomed stimulant, gave a new shade to his thoughts. He was safe. Presently he would be at the Retreat. He would rest, and then gird up his loins and face life again. The mood lasted for some time. And when the sense of physical weariness came back, that seemed to dull the acuteness of his spiritual torment. It was late when he reached the house and rang the night-bell. No one of the brothers was up except Father Monies, and it was he who came to the door.
“You! So late! Is anything the matter?”
“I needed to come,” the father said, simply, and he grasped the door-post, steadying himself as he came in.
“You look like a ghost.”
“Yes. I'm tired. I walked.”
“Walked? From Rivington Street?”
“Nearly. I felt like it.”
“It's most imprudent. You dined first?”
“I wasn't hungry.”
“But you must have something at once.” And Father Monies hurried away, heated some bouillon by a spirit-lamp, and brought it, with bread, and set it before his unexpected guest.