"Go along then, and say it!" said the Bishop, "and mind you say it nicely." Barbara threw her arm round his neck and hugged him passionately. Then he set her down, and she ran happily away, through a door at the farther end of the room. Meynell advanced, and the Bishop came to meet him. Over both faces, as they approached each other, there dropped a sudden shadow--a tremor as of men who knew themselves on the brink of a tragical collision--decisive of many things. And yet they smiled, the presence of the child still enwrapping them. "Excuse these domesticities," said the Bishop, "but there was such woe and lamentation just before you came. And childish griefs go deep. Bogies--of all kinds--have much to answer for!" Then the Bishop's smile disappeared. He beckoned Meynell to a chair, and sat down himself. Francis Craye, Bishop of Markborough, was physically a person of great charm. He was small--not more than five foot seven; but so slenderly and perfectly made, so graceful and erect in bearing, that his height, or lack of it, never detracted in the smallest degree from his dignity, or from the reverence inspired by the innocence and unworldliness of his character. A broad brow, overshadowing and overweighting the face, combined, with extreme delicacy of feature, a touch of emaciation, and a pure rose in the alabaster of the cheeks, to produce the aspect of a most human ghost--a ghost which had just tasted the black blood, and recovered for an hour all the vivacity of life. The mouth, thin-lipped and mobile to excess, was as apt for laughter as for tenderness; the blue eyes were frankness and eagerness itself. And when the glance of the spectator pursued the Bishop downward, it was to find that his legs, in the episcopal gaiters, were no less ethereal than his face; while his silky white hair added the last touch of refinement to a personality of spirit and fire. Meynell was the first to speak. "My lord! let me begin this conversation by once more thanking you--from my heart--for all the personal kindness that you have shown me in the last few months, and in the correspondence of the last fortnight." His voice wavered a little. The Bishop made no sign. "And perhaps," Meynell resumed, "I felt it the kindest thing of all that--after the letters I have written you this week--after the meeting of yesterday--you should have sent me that telegram last night, saying that you wished to see me to-day. That was like you--that touched me indeed!" He spoke with visible emotion. The Bishop looked up.