The rejected, the hungry, the drunks, the whores, the fools, the exploiters, the has-beens"" . . . were among the people on Second Street--the Rectory in Jersey City (and a funeral parlor ""In Business for Years"" across the street) to which the Moores came in 1949. With a dead dog on the church lawn outside, and bedbugs inside. Urban poverty, with a large ""unchurched"" Negro sector, and a white landlord throwing pennies to the ""nigger baby."" This is the story of their eight years there--as the ""we"" of the rectory, with traditions of privilege and privacy and the ""they"" of the slums all became ""we."" Along with their constantly increasing family, the Moores sheltered all kinds of people they could not necessarily salvage; she readily recognizes the limitations of an open arms approach which invited theft as well as trust; they put up derelicts of many ages and skin tones, from Mrs. O'Brien who literally swept the dirt under the rug to Harry, a dropout from the circus. And she tells this story of their eight years there without anything even faintly pietistic, but a very realistic commitment and emotional undertow. The Moores lived it--you read it; it's animated, stirring, and unemphatically eloquent.