Newbold’s eyes, round with amazement, dropped before the pure flame of the Bishop’s. “I had thought,” the clear voice went on, “that you would be glad to have the management of this money for Westbury, because it was here in Westbury, and in St. John’s, and in work for the Southside, that you, too, twenty years ago, came to your first thoughts of the Christian ministry.” “Yes,” muttered Newbold, “twenty years ago!” His foot ceased to tap the floor. He sat straight, motionless, “What, Bishop, was your idea, exactly, for the use of this sixty thousand?” “My idea--I--I suppose it’s impractical now--was what I called it in my mind, the House of Friendship. Not, of course, that I want it called that in reality. That’s, of course,” he said in quick deprecation, “sentimental in sound, but that’s what I mean.” “Exactly what?” probed Newbold. “You know,” the other appealed whimsically, “I left all the details to you even in my plans. I thought I’d just explain the spirit of it. A House of Friendship, that is a settlement house, in connection with the chapel in the Southside, a house open to everybody, to the mothers and fathers and the babies and the little girls and the newsboys, and open--still more open--to the members of St. John’s over here, on River Street, so that the mission and the church might learn, from each other, to be friends. I haven’t gone into the details, although I want to, one of these days, when my head gets a little clearer. The main thing was that you should understand.” “And I am to understand that your will is made out to me, with no instructions as to the use of the money?” “Yes.” “Does anyone know of your desire for the settlement house?” “No one. You were the only one who needed to know.” Newbold looked straight at his visitor. “Has it occurred to you, Bishop, that you are taking a great risk?” “What do you mean, lad?” asked the Bishop wonderingly. Newbold laughed, a laugh that rang true with honest amusement. “Well, hardly, as we both know, that I should make way with the money for my own ends, or that one cent of it shall be spent except for the object of your desire, but,--” his face grew grave and dark, “you imply, I think, something more. It is not merely the money that you leave in my charge, Bishop, but the work itself?” “I had always hoped, lad, to leave my work in your charge. In spirit, if not in actuality.” “Do you hope so this morning?” “May I hope so, Murray?” Once before, on the night of his ordination, the Bishop had called Newbold by his first name. Newbold’s answer was as direct to the soul as the Bishop’s question, “I don’t know!” Then sharp and querulous, “How could I? How can I?”