"My dear archdeacon," said the bishop, laughing, "pardon my mystification; this is the friend with whom I spent a day or two on my last visit to this neighbourhood, when you really thought you had lost me altogether; though, if you had told me I was to have the pleasure of meeting him at your table to-day, I might, perhaps, have let you into the secret." "But, my dear Bolton," said the host--he had dropped the Mr at once, and for ever--" why did you not tell me that you knew his lordship?--eh?" Harry laughed, and got a little confused again; but the bishop answered the question for him, before he had time to frame an intelligible reply. "Oh, that's a long story; but it was no mystery of Mr Bolton's, be assured. I am afraid, indeed, it will tell rather better for him than, for me; but I promise you the explanation, someday," continued the bishop, good-humouredly, "when we have nothing better to talk about." The archdeacon took the hint, and turned the conversation. Another guest or two joined the party; dinner succeeded, and passed off much as such affairs usually do. The bishop, although he did not address much of his conversation directly to Bolton, took care to make him feel at his ease; and Mr Luttridge, who sat next to him, became remarkably friendly--was quite surprised that he had not heard of him before, being, in fact, quite a near neighbour--only nine miles--nothing at all in that part of the country--should ride over to call on him one of the first days he could spare--and, in fact, said what became him to say to the bishop's friend and _protégé_.