“Well,” I said, “I can do no more. You can see for yourself, Miss Pettigrew, that I’m not in a state to make suggestions. I’m completely exhausted already and any further mental exertion will bring on a relapse. Do let me ring for tea. I want it myself.” The door opened as I spoke. I hoped that my nurse or McMeekin had arrived and would insist on my being left in peace. I was surprised and, in spite of my exhaustion, pleased to see Lalage and Hilda walk in. “Father,” said Lalage, “why didn’t you tell me last night that the bishop is dead?” “I didn’t think it would interest you,” said the Canon. “Of course it interests me. When poor old Pussy mentioned it to me just now I simply hopped out of my shoes with excitement and delight. So did Hilda.” “Did you hate the bishop that much?” I asked. “Worse than other bishops?” “Not at all,” said Lalage. “I never saw him except once and then I thought he was quite a lamb.” “Hilda,” I said, “why did you hop out of your shoes with excitement and delight when you heard of the death of an old gentleman who never did you any harm?” “We’ll have to elect another, won’t we?” said Lalage. A horrible dread turned me quite cold. I glanced at Miss Pettigrew. Her eyes had stopped twinkling. I read fear, actual fear, in the expression of her face. We both shrank from saying anything which might lead to the confirming of our worst anticipations. It was the Canon who spoke next. What he said showed that he was nearly desperate. “Lalage,” he said, “will you come with me for a tour to Brazil? I’ve booked one berth and I can easily get another!” “I can’t possibly go to Brazil,” said Lalage, “and you certainly ought not to think of it till the bishopric election is over.” “I’ll take Hilda, too,” said the Canon. “I should like to have Hilda. You and she would have great fun together.” “I’ll give Selby-Harrison a present of his ticket,” I added, “and pay his hotel expenses. It would be a delightful trip.” “Brazil,” said Miss Pettigrew, “is one of the most interesting countries in the world. I can lend you a book on the natural history.” “Hilda’s mother wouldn’t let her go,” said Lalage. “Would she, Hilda?” “I’m afraid not,” said Hilda. “She thinks I ought to be more at home.” “Miss Pettigrew will talk her over,” I said. “It’s a great chance for Hilda. She oughtn’t to miss it.” “And Selby-Harrison has just entered the Divinity School,” said Lalage. “He couldn’t possibly afford the time.” “The long days on the steamer,” I said, “would be perfectly invaluable to him. He could read theology from morning to night. There’d be nothing, except an occasional albatross, to distract his attention.” “Those South American republics,” said Miss Pettigrew, “are continually having revolutions.”