“And happy Christmas to you, too, Bishop,” said the mother, while Lois took his hat and cane. He tugged helplessly at his overcoat so that they each sprang to pull at a sleeve. “Thank you. There! Don’t let yourself be eighty, Lois. It’s a sad thing to be older than your overcoat.” Then, seating himself, he continued, “Harry tells me his father is not well to-day. I am very sorry. I have been worried lately about him.” “We have all been worried. It is hard to understand. I suppose,” Mrs. Newbold smiled wanly, “it is just another case of ministerial nerves, but he suffers very much at times. I wish I could shield him from all worry, but I cannot always anticipate what is going to disturb him. We try, the children and I, but I fear we are very stupid. This morning, for instance--” she broke off, “this morning he felt quite unequal to the Christmas service, yet he is worried at not being there.” “Edgerton and I will manage the service. Dr. Newbold may be quite at ease about that. I hope--” A summoning bell from above rang sharply. Mrs. Newbold started, “Oh, Katie is at church,” she exclaimed. “Run, Lois! No, I’ll go myself!” With fingers upon the portière, however, she paused. The Bishop rose, an odd little flicker in his eyes. “Suppose I go,” he said, moving toward the hall. The wife looked at him, fighting for a tremulous smile. “There is nothing the matter really, of course. I shouldn’t let you go up. I know I ought to go. But--” she drew quick breath, concluding, “he’s in the study, Bishop.” Once again as earlier in the day, the Bishop paused before a closed door. An instant he stood there, hesitant, with bowed head, deeply thoughtful, then he knocked with firm hand. “Come in, of course,” a voice thundered. “Why else should I ring except for you to come in!” The Bishop was standing quietly in the doorway. At sight of him, the bulky form flung upon the couch sprang up. “I--I--beg your pardon. I thought it was the maid, or my wife.” “It is merely your bishop.” The Bishop’s quiet length sank into a deep chair. His long slim hands rested calmly upon the leather arms. Dr. Newbold sat bolt upright upon the couch, darting furtive glances at the Bishop from eyes too blue for his reddened face. His right hand, strong and square, clutched a cushion tensely. The nervous twitching of his lips redeemed from heaviness a face clean-shaven but always bearing the blue-black shadow of a heavy growth of beard. There was a pleasant sweep of brow beneath jet hair. “I am sorry you find me so upset this morning, Bishop. They perhaps told you downstairs--” then he paused, remembering what they might well have told the Bishop downstairs! “Harry told me you were ill. I met him going out.” “I judged that he had gone out. Harry’s sole comment on his father’s headaches is slamming the front door!” “The youngsters know so little about headaches,” answered the Bishop; “that is the trouble, then, this morning, headache?”