Sylvia decided at once that some one must be told; so she went back to lunch with her aunt, and afterwards sought out the Bishop in his study. The walls of this room were lined with ancient theological treatises and sermons in faded greenish-black bindings: an array which never failed to appal the soul of Sylvia, who realized that she had consigned to the scrap-heap all this mass of learning—and had not yet apologized for her temerity. “Uncle Basil,” she began, “I have something very, very important to tell you.” The Bishop turned from his desk and gazed at her. “I am engaged to be married,” she said. “Why, Sylvia!” he exclaimed. “And I—I’m very much in love.” “Who is the man, my dear?” “It is Frank Shirley.” Sylvia was used to watching people and reading their thoughts quickly. She saw that her uncle’s first emotion was one of dismay. “Frank Shirley!” “Yes, Uncle Basil.” Then she saw him gather himself together. He was going to try to be fair—the dear soul! But she could not forget that his first emotion had been dismay. “Tell me about it, my child,” he said. “I met him at the Venable’s,” she replied, “only a couple of weeks ago. He’s an unusual sort of man, lonely and unhappy, very reserved and hard to get at. He fell in love with me—very much in love; but he didn’t want me to know it. He did tell me at last.” The Bishop was silent. “I love him,” she added. “Are you sure?” “As I’ve never loved anybody—as I never dreamed I could love.” There was a pause. “Uncle Basil—he’s a good man,” she said. “That is why I love him.” Again there was a pause. “Have you told your father and mother?” asked the Bishop. “Not yet.” “You must tell them at once, Sylvia.” “I know they will make objections, and I want you to meet Frank and talk with him. You see, Uncle Basil, I’m going to marry him—and I want your help.” The Bishop was silent again, weighing his next words. “Of course, my dear,” he said, “from a worldly point of view it is not a good match, and I fear your parents will regard it as a calamity. But, as you know, I think of nothing but the happiness of my darling Sylvia. I won’t say anything at all until I have met the man. Send him to see me, little girl, and then I will give you the best counsel I can.” § 22 Frank went to pay his call the next day, and then came back to Sylvia. “He’s a dear old man,” he said. “And he wants what is best for you.” “What does he want?” demanded Sylvia. “He says we should not marry now—that I ought to be better able to take care of you. And of course he’s right.” There was a pause; then suddenly Frank exclaimed, “Sylvia, I can’t be just a farmer if I’m going to marry you.” “What can you be, Frank?” “I’m going to go to college.” “But that would take four years!”