“Yet it is hardest,” the Bishop’s face showed a passing shadow, as he looked inward upon past struggles and forward to that next interview of his Christmas Day, “to forgive those who hurt _Him_, His work. Yet he forgave even that, upon His cross. When we remember that, I do not know how I--how we--_dare_ not to forgive.” He paused, while his fingers on the black knobs tightened, then the shadow of his face was struck away by the quick sunshine of reassurance. He looked toward Mrs. Graham, “You see,” he said, “it seems to me that if God in all His eternity has no time to be stern, then perhaps we--who have such a little while! have no time for anything but loving. Don’t you,” he pleaded, “don’t you think so, too?” The ruddiness had paled from her cheeks. She was looking at him with wide, intense eyes. “That’s your way, Bishop. But it’s what I couldn’t--ever climb up to,--I guess.” She had to fight to speak, against her choking breath, “I’m one of those you’ll have to forgive, I’m afraid, for not doing what you want. I wish I could, on your account. But it don’t seem as if I could make up with Florence. But I can’t bear that you should look like that, Bishop,--disappointed! Don’t, please don’t, mind! It’s just that I’m a mother who’s lost her boy, and wants him back and can’t get him, him and his baby!” “And yet,” he answered, “they are all there, all ready for you, waiting, wanting you, all there! It is, it is, too bad!” “Florence!” she whispered. “Needing and wanting you most of all. Seeing, by the way her little one needs her, how much she needs a mother. Perhaps mothering is your way of forgiving. Couldn’t you try it? Florence has never had a chance, has she, to learn many things, if she has been a motherless girl? Perhaps she did hate you once. I don’t believe she hates anyone now. It’s very hard to hate when there’s a baby in the house. She sent the picture. She needs you. She knows she needs you, for she knows now what a child can miss who has no mother. Let us think of all she has missed, and not be too hard on her, you and I, any more.” She was silent, one hand tense upon the curtain cord. “It’s such a good day to go,” he urged, “such a good day to do the unexpected, Christmas! Everyone expects the unexpected, on Christmas.” A comical smile worked on her set face, “You do, anyway, Bishop!” she said with a catch in the throat. “I think I did allow myself to expect this,” he answered, “this making-up. Perhaps I expected it because I wanted it so, for I’ve been in such a hurry somehow, about that baby. Why, he’ll be growing up, while we’re still talking. You have three-quarters of an hour,” he glanced at the clock in quick remembrance of the visit to Dr. Newbold before church-time, “and you’ll go?” He waited. She was silent still, until she burst out, “I can’t! I’d say ‘yes’ if I could, when you beg me so. But I can’t say it, and I’ve got to be honest with you. I can’t say it!”