"Yes, but suppose I don't. These--excuse me, these--bishops, you know--something about the cloth--the glamour of the church-- But it helps to have your blessing. I thought you hadn't noticed." "You thought I hadn't noticed? Mercy! What ails the man? Thought I hadn't noticed-- Why, how could I help it?" "I don't know. Hang that bishop! Oh, shucks, what is a bishop? Come on, congratulate me--do it right now, to spur me on and just to prove that we don't care two cents for the bishop." Rosalie held out her hand. "I congratulate you with all my heart. You are not good enough for her, but if she is satisfied, I should worry. On behalf of the manse, I welcome you." "Thanks. Now it is all settled. I feel better." And they laughed together gaily. "What in the world are you two doing, whispering back there in the corner?" asked Doris curiously. "Mercy, are you holding hands?" "We are sealing a solemn pact," he answered blithely. "Rosalie has a way of making me very happy sometimes." Doris caught her breath suddenly, and crushed her fingers against her lips. A dark shadow came into her eyes, and she looked searchingly into Rosalie's laughing face. Then she crossed the room and stood by her father, her fingers gripping his sleeve, and very soon she slipped away up the stairs and went to bed. When Rosalie came to find her, she said she was tired and nervous-- Wouldn't Rosalie say good night for her, and tell him how kind he had been? When Rosalie repeated the message to Mr. MacCammon he looked perturbed. "Isn't she coming down at all?" "Seems not. But she is nervous, really, and worried about father--and your kindness has upset her." "I'll bet she is thinking of that bishop," he said grimly. "You run up-stairs and talk about me, will you? Tell her how nice I am, and how handsome, and what a good husband I will make--put it on pretty thick, you know how it is done. A lovely diamond ring for your pains, young lady, if you play it right. There's a nice little girl." So Rosalie obediently ran up and sat beside Doris on the bed, stroking the hot hand, and saying over and over how charming and clever and thoughtful dear Mr. MacCammon was, and how much more attractive than that stupid bishop, and how wonderfully good she was sure he would be to any girl who became his very own. And Doris lay on the bed quivering, too loyal to her sister to voice a protest, but lacking the moral courage to speak agreement. And Doris did not sleep that night--although she hated herself for being so sorry over such a little thing as-- Well, as what? Anyhow, she was surprised, that was all--but was ashamed even to think of such a trifle, in the face of father's so much greater grief. And when she wept softly into the pillow she had to tell herself over and over again that every tear was for father, and every sob, and every bit of ache that was in her heart. CHAPTER XIII ROSALIE'S WAY