“Oh, I know where it is; but I mean what sort of a place is it?”
Mr. Roberts slightly elevated his shapely shoulders.
“It is a boarding-house, where many clerks board; that tells a doleful story to the initiated, I suspect. Poor fare and dismal surroundings; still, it is eminently respectable.”
“Where does he spend his Sabbaths?”
The rapidly-moving pen executed nearly two lines of handsome writing before Mr. Roberts was ready to respond to this question.
“Why, at church, principally, I fancy. He is very regular in his attendance at morning service, and the South End Mission absorbs his afternoons. I suppose he goes to church in the evening; but since we have been giving our attention to that evening mission I have not seen him.”
“Ah, but, Evan, I mean the rest of the time; those little bits of Sabbath time that are sacred to home. The twilight, for instance, or for an hour in the morning. Do you know what sort of a place he has for those times?”
Nearly three more lines added to the paper; then Mr. Roberts raised his head:—
“No, my dear, I don't. Now that you bring me face to face with the question, it seems a surprising thing to say that I should not know where a young man who has been for more than a year in our employ spends his choice bits of time, but I don't.”
“Then I want to tell you something about it. He has a dingy, fourth-story back room; small, I fancy, from the way in which he spoke of it, and not a speck of fire over! In such weather as this, how can a young man read his Bible, or even pray, under such circumstances?”