Then they were friends, and since any one could see plainly there was nothing in the house that needed her particular attention, she took the bishop into the yard and they walked under the bare branches of the maples, dragging their feet through the crinkly fallen leaves, and then they visited father in the garage, teasing him for his motor madness. And it was lunch time before one could realize that breakfast was entirely a thing of the past. Doris could have apologized for her rudeness very easily, for the bishop had a way of helping one to speak. But she knew it was not necessary, for the bishop also had a way of understanding even when words were left unsaid. And Doris wondered how he ever came to be a Methodist! As Rosalie said afterward, "You ought to know better than to feed a man such pancakes if you want to be enemies with him." And as Zee pointed out very plainly, "His age has nothing to do with it. He was married once, and you could not expect them to un-bishop him just because his wife died--I suppose bishops' wives can die if they want to, like anybody else." And as Treasure insisted, "Doris is a lovely thing, in spite of being a general, and why shouldn't the bishop enjoy a manse for a change?" At all events, the bishop tore himself away from the manse with the most utter and apparent reluctance, and kept coming back now and again in a way that was flattering, as well as unprecedented. And Mr. Artman began to look at his oldest daughter with puzzled wondering eyes, with something of pain in them--and the pancakes got better right along. "Isn't it funny how regular bishops are, when you get to know them?" Doris said to Rosalie. "Why, I don't see any objection to them at all--we Presbyterians might have a few of our own." Then she said, "But between you and me, I think it is lots more fun to talk to people you don't understand, and do not know, and--perfect strangers, you know, who are very friendly. It is so much more thrilling." "But how could one be a perfect stranger and still be very friendly?" laughed Rosalie. "Why, very easily indeed. You don't know him, who he is, or where he lives, or anything--but when you are together you are great friends." "Who are you talking about?" "Why, anybody. Just any stranger that you do not know, but who has a way of being very intimate." "Doris, you are dreaming," cried Rosalie. "Whoever heard of such a thing? If you are intimate, he can't be a stranger. If you are intimate, you've _got_ to know each other." "Oh, not necessarily. Not by any means." "Well, for my part, I prefer people I know and like--people who sit down in the big chair and read the paper and act human." Doris laughed gleefully. "I don't," she said. "For once you are more sensible than I am. I like perfect strangers that I do not know a thing about--but can tell from their eyes that they are good--I like people who just flit around, and come and go--like wizards." CHAPTER IX THE RUNAWAYS