The Bishop had closed his eyes. This was the kind of thing that hurt his head, and he must keep his head clear, must! “Christmas is not half over,” he said, starting at the thought of the morning slipping by, and the church, so near, calling to him, “There is half of Christmas left!” “Half a day in which to teach my son to respect me!” “But this son is Harry. So it will not take so long.” “Harry is hard!” “He is generous!” “He never forgives!” “Have you ever asked him to forgive?” “My boy! No! I know him! He knows me!” “I think perhaps,” the Bishop said slowly, “you will never know Harry, nor he you, until you have asked of him forgiveness. It’s one of the test things, forgiveness. The boy will meet it. He has nobility, Harry, by inheritance.” “From his mother, yes.” “From his father, no less.” “They are their mother’s children, both of them,” Newbold murmured wearily. The Bishop’s face flashed radiant. His right hand lifted in a quick gesture. “Can any man say anything more beautiful than that?” “You mean,” stammered Newbold, “what?” “I think I only meant,” hesitated the Bishop, “that I felt just that way about my child, and her mother. They belonged to each other, not to me. I was only fit to try to take care of them.” “I have not taken,” said Newbold heavily, “much care of mine!” “Oh, lad, lad,” said the Bishop, “don’t waste that privilege. It never--it never has grown easy--for me to live without it.” Newbold’s words came in a whisper, to himself, “She does not expect it now. Perhaps she does not even wish it!” The Bishop leaned slightly forward in his chair. “Newbold,” he said firmly, “between you and Harry there must be words, as between men. But, for Lois and the mother, downstairs, have you anything to do but to stretch out your hand? It is one of their mysteries, that women always understand better without words.” Newbold dropped his forehead on interlaced fingers that concealed his face. He was long silent. His hands dropped at last from a face haggard, but a-shine with boyishness. “Bishop,” he said, “you’ve made me feel a whole lot better!” “I am glad!” For the first time in their talk the Bishop’s lip showed its slight palsied trembling. “You always did make me feel better. It is your secret.” Then a shadow fell, “But how? Why?” the shadow darkened. “I don’t deserve it!” The Bishop studied the darkened face with a sad keenness. “You have not told me all the worries this morning, have you? What else?” Newbold stirred uneasily, then brightened a little with reminiscence, “Odd, how little things take one back sometimes. The mere way we are sitting at this moment,--you, Bishop, in that deep chair with your hands on the arms, and I here at the desk,--it makes me feel as if you might take up the dictating and I my shorthand at any instant.” “It does not seem to me so very long ago.” “It strikes me now, that you were pretty patient. I was a raw enough youth when I first came to Westbury.”