If you thought it was imperative to change your name and you had access to all the Literature—Ancient and Modern—to be found in a Carnegie Library, would you select for yourself the name “Sullivan?”

Evidently our Irish Lad agreed with Cohan—that “it is a d—n fine name”—for when I recognized in him one of my Family of Homeless Men as he walked aimlessly along the city streets, and asked him rather abruptly, what his name might be, his reply—too long considered to be truthful—was, “Frank Sullivan.”

“Pardon me,” I said, immediately realizing that I had no right to ask of him the question and that my thoughtlessness had caused the boy to answer falsely. The outcast, distrustful of his fellow, frequently seeks safety in falsehood until friendship disarms suspicion and Love calls forth the Truth for which it has not asked.

“Frank Sullivan,” I said. “I, too, like the name.”

So upon my invitation he came gladly into our little Family to share the happy freedom of a peaceful home, where others like himself give honest work and receive—not in the spirit of organized charity, but in the true warmth of fraternal love—the hospitality of a welcome guest.

His Irish heart soon caught the meaning of the work, and responded readily in thoughtful service.... If our Self Master Colony attracted the attention of some broad-minded man well known in humanitarian work so that encouraged, it carried me and my dreams of uplift higher and higher until the stars were our near neighbors—Sullivan, silent and attentive, followed me in my dreams.

If my work was misunderstood and my best efforts discredited, Sullivan was at my side silently consoling me with his loyalty and friendship.

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?”

Then receiving no reply, I turned to look and he had gone—gone to offer his blanket to the new guest.

“Yes,” I heard him say, “I have some extra covers on my bed you may have.”

"Another falsehood. Sullivan, you should always speak the truth." For the nights were cold and the blankets none too many. And yet since many prayers are lies, why may not some lies be prayers? “Maybe in your dark purgatory, my Irish lad, these little falsehoods of yours will be counted as prayers.”

One afternoon a letter came for my friend—in a young girl’s rather labored writing—he had received many such, and as I gave it to him I smiled a little. To him I had always been an indulgent Father—for a boy and girl will love, even though he or she may be our favorite child.

That night when the day’s labor was over, Sullivan came to me, asking if he could talk to me. It was a strange request, for he never seemed to wish to talk, and I knew that something had moved him deeply.

“You know my name is not Frank Sullivan,” he asked.

“Yes, I know,” I answered.

“But did you know I was married?” he inquired.

“What, a boy like yourself married?” I asked.

"Yes, I have been married over two years and have a little girl a year old. The letters that I have received have been from my wife Josephine. She and I ran away and were married, but on our return her father wouldn’t accept me. He said I was not worthy of his daughter—and no doubt he is right. He is wealthy and I could not support her in the way to which she is accustomed. So I was forced to leave her. But Josephine and I couldn’t forget.

“All these months she has been working to interest her father in me, and now the baby is a year old, he has decided to help me.... We—Josephine and I—knew he would soften in time; you see he, too, loves Josephine and the Baby. So I want to go to them.”

“Yes,” I said simply, for a sense of approaching loss had robbed me of my pretty speeches.

“When you met me, I didn’t know where to go, nor what to do,” he said.

“Yes.”

“I have flattered myself I have been some help to you in starting your work. Tell me have I made good to you?”

“Yes.”

“I shall try to make good to Josephine’s father.”

“Yes.”

Then in a few moments he said:

“Now that it is time to go from you, I hate to leave you and the boys.”

“But you must go,” I said, “your wife and child have the first claim.”

“Josephine wanted me to ask you for two or three rugs that the boys weave. We want them for our new home.”

“You may have them.”

And I took him by the hand, “Good-by, Sullivan.”

“Not Sullivan anymore, but McLean,” he replied.

As he turned away he said half regretfully, “It is the Passing of Sullivan.”

“I wonder if Richelieu, after all, lost his Friar Philip?” I asked myself as I waved my hand in farewell to him.