“Yes,” answered Newbold, straightening, “I believe I can say that I have found those things. I started at least without them, as you must well remember--I was a raw enough youngster when I first came to you in Westbury--it is humorous to recall--” he laughed a sharp nervous laugh, then grew instantly grave, “I didn’t have much in those days, but I did have health.” “Yes,” the Bishop answered, “you did have,” he paused oddly--“health!” “I suppose, if the term had not been so much abused that I might truthfully call myself a self-made man. The church has done much for me. I am grateful,--with reservations! That is why I feel that in spite of these diabolic nerves of mine I must go on, must serve the church, the diocese, in its need.” “Yet you feel,” asked the Bishop wistfully, “that you cannot serve the Southside Mission?” Sharp sagacity instantly controlled Newbold’s garrulous nerves, “That was a principle of simple common sense, such as might well be applied to other die-away mission chapels in many a parish.” Very low the other voice, and far away, “Yet the poor are to have the Gospel preached to them.” “The parent church is open to them,” Newbold answered almost with petulance, “here as elsewhere.” “You mean,” the tone was strange, “that it would be your policy to close other missions, in other churches, throughout the diocese?” “It would be my policy,” replied Newbold, setting his heavy jaw, “to cut off all waste until we get our diocesan treasury out of debt. The church’s one foundation,” he added with that daring cynicism that delighted St. John’s in his sermons, “is at present sound finance.” It was a buffet across the Bishop’s face, making Newbold instantly protest, “It is not the mere money. It is the deep unpopularity of such missions as the Southside with such congregations as St. John’s. Am I to go against my vestry and retain my position? Am I to be a Dr. Judd?” “You are afraid?” “Afraid! Impossible! For a man of my make-up,” he smiled in honest amusement, wetting his lips, “I merely have the sense not to become voluntarily unpopular. What can a man do in the face of unpopularity? His hands are tied. He is helpless.” The room and the man before him sank like a picture curtained from the Bishop’s sight. With wide strange eyes he saw another picture. He was unconscious of his words, “_His_ hands were tied, in the face of unpopularity! Yet He preached the Gospel to the poor,--and to the rich, to the poor rich!” There was a long uncomfortable silence, during which the Bishop rested his head against the chair-back, waxen eyelids closed. Newbold studied the silent, sculptured face so long that at last for pure uneasiness he faltered, “I own, Bishop, that I’m no idealist.” The Bishop opened far, clear eyes, “What are you?” There was a long pause, then still in that far, clear voice, speaking quite to himself the Bishop said, “Yet you will be--”