“The day didn’t go very well, not till I got here to you. I got up feeling a bit shaky. I’m going to treat myself to that couch over there presently. Perhaps if my head had been clearer I might have seen better how to do what I tried to do to-day. But I’m afraid the real trouble goes deeper, and dates farther back. Christmas day sometimes throws a light back over the other days and years. I haven’t done what might have been done with all the years that have been granted me. I see that to-day. And now it is too late, isn’t it?” “What has happened to-day?” “Nothing has happened but knowledge, perhaps, knowledge to which I have forced myself to be blind. But in the light of Christmas I had to see, that’s all. And so I suppose I’m a little discouraged, and need to be bolstered up, as you can. It’s a good thing for me that you’ve never had time to grow old, Lucy. For it’s no fun,” his smile flashed, then fell as suddenly, “this being old.” She fought against his growing seriousness, “I’ve had to stay young, Henry, to keep you from growing old. So don’t go and be old all of a sudden to-day,”--she forced her tone to evenness, “not to-day of all days! I will have to-day!” “I wanted to-day, too,” he answered, “but I’ve had to give up what I wanted, so far, twice.” “Who, exactly, is the trouble, Henry?” “Newbold.” He paused so long that Lucy asked with the faintest frown of weariness, “Well, and what has that young man done to-day?” “Young, he is that, certainly! I half forgot it, young and therefore,--” again he stopped, but his eyes were kindled. “No, not ‘therefore,’” Lucy answered keenly, “if you mean by that that he is still young enough to improve.” “Not with help?” “Whose?” The Bishop hesitated, eyes intent, searching hers, then answered, “Westbury’s, for Westbury has hurt him.” “Will he profit by Westbury’s help if he has not profited by yours?” The Bishop mused, frankly anxious, puzzled, “I had been thinking that if Westbury had hurt him, just for that reason perhaps, Westbury--could also help him, and would.” “Oh, Henry, Henry,” she shook her head with pursed, humorous lips, “you talk in abstract terms. But Westbury is no abstraction. ‘Westbury could help him.’ Exactly what do you mean? For who, pray, is Westbury?” The Bishop’s gaze met hers; there was humor in his eyes as in hers, but also something deeper, something watchful, strange. “Oh,” she laughed, “I remember. I am Westbury! Do you mean, Henry Collinton, that I am to help this Newbold of yours? That I am to make a gentleman of him, if you couldn’t?” But at her words the Bishop’s face grew stern, “No, I have utterly failed to make him anything that I wished. But it is arrogant, perhaps, this hoping to make anybody anything. Yet how could I help hoping? He was a splendid boy, and I had no son.”