I am glad your dear mother is not alive to share in the pain which your communication has caused me. YOUR DISAPPOINTED FATHER. The bishop had hoped, rather than expected, that his son would turn from his resolve. He knew the breed! From the time when their ancestor, Hugh de Chalmers, had started forth to the Crusades, not one had ever retreated. And this same De Chalmers, knighted for some deed of valor on the field of battle, had chosen his coat of arms, which had remained to the house through the vicissitudes of generations. And this coat of arms consisted of field _gules_, horse _argent_, with the motto: “_Ubique honor et equus_” (“Wherever honor and his horse should lead him”). Always the horse had been associated with the Chalmers race, for good or bad, it seemed. After the two letters there had been no others. The lives of father and son were as those of persons unknown to one another. The little bishop, sadder than ever--more sanctified, the women of his flock said--went about his work with renewed vigor, if it were possible. They did not know of the derelict. And the son? Never until this day had the father heard of him. Try as hard as he had done, the bishop could not put from him the desire, the consuming, yearning wish, once more to look on the face of his only child, even if engaged in his ungodly pursuit. The bishop considered this would be his only chance; he was certain his heart was affected. Suddenly he came to himself. He was here, but as yet he had seen no horses or jockeys. His son was apparently as far away from him as he had been when he first had become a professional rider. The bishop had supposed men and women, horses and jockeys, were all wallowing together in one slough. Neither did Bishop Chalmers distinguish the face of an acquaintance. Vaguely he had supposed he would be seen by some who had heard him preach the night before, and who would express astonishment at meeting him there. Where was Miss Danvers? If he had only known, he would have been aware that the people who would recognize him were in their boxes or grand-stand seats, or in the paddock, where society condescends to jostle elbows with stable boys, proving the truth of the adage enunciated by a true sage: “On the turf, and beneath it, all men are equal.” At least, the bishop was saved from explanation. It was just after the third race he had arrived. Even now that he had come, he saw no prospect of accomplishing his design. He knew nothing of a paddock.