The Bishop still kept the spray of crimson berries in his hand when they had crossed the hall into the library, where the fire sprang high and where beyond the twin windows that matched those of the dining-room, the river had turned to slaty gray below the dulling eastern sky. The light in the room was quite clear, but yet the Bishop, in the dizziness that followed his rising and walking from the dining-room, groped for a chair, and sank into it awkwardly, leaning back a moment with shut eyes. For the instant his clear old face looked withered, and his hands upon the chair-arms hung lax. Lucy was still standing against the fire glow, slight, vivid, imperious. “Henry!” The Bishop opened vague eyes. “I can’t let you look like that, Henry, to-day!” The Bishop smiled, “I’m a bit tired. I’ve just remembered it. You had made me forget it, as usual, made me forget both the tiredness and some other things. They come back upon me now. I’ve had a rather rough morning of it, to tell the truth.” “Tell me about it,” she said, sitting down. “I’ve been hearing things I didn’t want to hear, and believing things I didn’t want to believe, and trying to do things I couldn’t do, all morning. It seems a pretty long time since to-day began. Oh, I was going to do great things to-day when I got up!” “But the day is not over.” “That is just it,” he answered. “My day _is_ over!” “No, no, it must never be over! You must never speak like that! Why even I--” she broke off, “but you, Henry! Who were always such a boy for hoping! You mustn’t stop; I’ll never let you!” He looked at her with a grave, far gaze, “It would be a Christmas gift that I need, Lucy, if to-day you gave me hope. You are the only person who can!” “What has gone wrong, Henry?” “It was only that I wanted to give Westbury a Christmas present, and Westbury would not have it.” “Who, pray, had the right to say so?” “Newbold.” “Newbold! He! What rights has he in Westbury, may I ask?” The Bishop’s glance was startled and penetrating, “Has he none, Lucy?” She caught back her words sharply, saying merely, “No right to hurt you, Henry, that is all. But tell me about the Christmas present to Westbury. It is some new philanthropic scheme of yours, I suppose. Tell me about it, for you know you might offer your Christmas present to me. Try whether I’ll take it, if I am Westbury.” [Illustration: As before, he knocked, all eager, and again opening doors flashed ruddy on the night _See page 146_] His face broke aflame, “You will?” he cried, “I believe that you can!” “Tell me!” she repeated, dropping her chin upon her white bodkin fingers, and fixing her eyes upon the beauty of his face. The two clear, pale old faces looked forth at each other across a space, while slowly there drew in about them the mystery of the dusk. Athwart the gathering twilight, the Bishop’s voice fell musical and clear.