As the days passed, and the plans for the future matured, Rosalie kept shrewd eyes on her sister's face. "She is worried about father, of course, but so are the rest of us, and we don't act like that," she thought soberly. "It can't be Mr. MacCammon, surely, for he does not try to hide what he thinks. And anybody can see what she feels toward him--anybody but Mr. MacCammon, for he really is fussed about the bishop." And Rosalie laughed gleefully, for she solemnly believed that no lover had any right to win his heart's desire without a few sharp pangs of jealousy. Doris was pale and gentle to an unwonted degree, but she shirked no whit of her responsibility. She arranged with the president of the college for filling the pulpit during her father's absence, and he acceded to her request with hearty good will. "If I can't get anybody else, I'll do it myself. So get that off your mind right away. As a matter of fact, I have quite a few things I'd like to tell the people in this town, but I never had the courage to do it with your father's kindly eyes upon me. But with him out of the road, I surely will relieve my feelings." Miss Carlton promised not only freely, but fulsomely, to come and chaperon the younger girls during the week the others were in Chicago. And Mr. Artman was argued into accepting their friend's kindly offer in a way that was scientific to the highest degree. On the morning he took train for Chicago Doris and Rosalie, with their shabby bags, were tucked into MacCammon's car among his portfolios and manuscripts. Curiously enough, Doris insisted on sitting in the back seat alone. "Please," she said, when MacCammon and Rosalie both protested. "I am so tired and fidgety. When I am in front I sit up straight and watch the road every minute. But in the back I can settle down and rest. Let Rosalie sit in front, she likes to watch the road and get excited, and squeal when you spin on the corners." Rosalie and MacCammon eyed each other grimly when Doris slipped into her chosen place without waiting for the help of a friendly hand. "The bishop," whispered MacCammon ominously. "The bishop your grandmother," thought Rosalie, turning around to squint thoughtfully at her sister. The first twenty-five miles were traversed in absolute silence, MacCammon driving with grim and rigid energy, Rosalie looking through half-closed lids reflectively into space, Doris crouching in the corner of the back seat alone. Thirty-five miles--and then MacCammon laughed suddenly. "Hang the bishop," he said in a low voice. Rosalie laughed with him. "You can't hang him--it isn't orthodox." "Burn him at the stake then. She hasn't-- Anyhow, I don't--I am not going to get cold feet yet-- That-- There is no reason--" "Faint heart," scoffed Rosalie.