"Did you join when you were just a girl, mother?" the boy asked, his lips close to her ear.
"Yes," she replied, "I was very young when I joined."
"Did father ever join the church?" Harvey went on, releasing his face to gaze about the sleeping city.
"No, dear—no, your father never was a member of the church," she said softly.
"Wasn't he good enough? Wouldn't they let him?" the lad asked wonderingly.
"They never—they never refused him," his mother faltered. "But he never thought he was good enough."
"But he was, wasn't he?" the boy pursued.
"Yes, dear—yes, he was once—he often was. He always meant to be good; he loved you, Harvey. And he made me promise that some day I would tell you why he thought—why he thought he wasn't good enough. He was afraid you might be the same; it was something he—something he couldn't help very well—I'll tell you some day, Harvey. Who's that?" she whispered excitedly, pointing towards a shadowy figure that was winding its way silently towards them.
His mother straightened up as she spoke, Harvey's hand tight clasped in hers again. The figure came swiftly on.
"It's Madeline," the boy said rather excitedly. "It's Madeline Borland—I guess she's going to join too."