"Oh, but you wait till the bishop comes," Rosalie whispered to Doris, when they were safe in the manse again. "What will he say to these carryings on? Your very own bishop--" "He is not my very own bishop. And if he is, I will not have him. And it certainly is nothing to the bishop if father has a friend." "I do not imagine the dear bishop cares two cents how many friends father has. But what your bishop will say to you is more than I can imagine. And who but a serious sensible girl would ever dream of bandying with a bishop? Frivolous and all as I am, General, I should never be guilty of trifling with a bishop's affections." "He hasn't any." "Oh, yes, he has. He has oceans of them. But what difference does it make to you how many affections he has?" "No difference at all," admitted Doris, laughing. And she added, flushing a little, but still laughing, "But I should really like to know whether--father's friend--has any." And then she ran away, before Rosalie could catch and shake her. The Chicago trips were very frequent now, and in spite of his evident pleasure in the new and brilliant friend, Mr. Artman grew more preoccupied. Sometimes Doris could hear him pacing up and down his room at night, when he should have been asleep. And very often he pushed his plate away from him at the table, and could not eat, although Doris had patiently and painstakingly prepared the dishes he loved best. And every day he spoke of little headaches, and kept the blinds lowered in his room, working with the amber glasses. And many times, when they thought he was working, he was sitting at his desk with his head in his arms. "Oh, Rosalie, I can't stand it," Doris cried at last. "I know there is something wrong with father. But some way--I can't ask him. I am afraid to. I know he is sick." "No, he is not sick, Doris. I know what it is." "Rosalie!" "One day I got a Chicago city directory--oh, long ago, when he first began making these trips to see Doctor Hancock--I got a directory, and looked the doctor up. He is not a minister, as you thought. He is an oculist." "Father's eyes!" "Yes. And last week I wrote to the doctor myself, and told him we were worried about father, and asked him to tell me. He says father's eyes are very bad, and he must have an operation as soon as possible. It should have been done some time ago, but father has been putting it off. And the doctor says by all means he should rest his eyes for several months, a year if possible, without using them one little bit." For a moment all the bright room went swimming before Doris. Then she cried out, in pain and self-reproach. "Oh Rosalie, I was happy myself, and I forgot to look after father. It was you who thought of him."