In that stern, brooding silence, Lucy said at length, “Don’t mind too much, Henry. Remember you idealize--persons and--towns. He was always out of place here, that is all. He could never belong here.” The Bishop turned his head in the old quick boyish way, “But could he not have a place in Westbury, if Westbury would make a place for him?” “Incorrigible one!” she smiled. “How?” Stern age in judgment on his failure left the Bishop’s face,--the little sunny child stole back to it. “I have a little hope,” he admitted, “but so very small! It depends on you, all of it.” His eyes were all aflame, but his tone was grave. “You know so well how to help a man in his work, how to cheer him on through doubt and failure. Have you ever failed me?” “I know how to let a man talk to me, perhaps,” she murmured. “Yes, how you have let me talk to you, always,--ever since the mission was founded! Ever since that day we have talked, ever since that day I have brought my work to you!” “And I have listened!” “And have helped! Lucy, as you have helped,” she felt the sharp intake of his breath, “as you have helped me, could you not also help him who shall come after me?” “Come after you? What, whom, do you mean, Henry! You cannot surely mean that he, your Newbold, shall come after _you_?” “You know the diocese, Lucy, as I know it--can you doubt that--Dr. Newbold--will come after me?” “Henry, would you, could you, choose that he should? After _you_?” “What choice have I? I--I am passing on. The sadness is that I would have desired him to follow me, once.” “Now?” “Will you help him, Lucy?” “How?” “Be his friend. He does not believe you his friend. It is the only hope.” “Hope of what, Henry?” “It seems to me at this moment, the only hope of all that I have desired.” Leaning back in infinite weariness, he gazed into the fire, silently. In the dusky room the fire glow was rosy warm about them, as they sat in twin chairs before the hearth. Silently the old footman had entered, and across the room had lighted and turned low a green-shaded lamp. Lucy sat motionless. A coal slipped down, with a whisper, glowed, and dimmed to ashes. “What have you desired, Henry?” The Bishop turned, “You have had all my dreams,” he answered, “so you know.” A strange mysticism showed upon his face, “I have desired to-day, to give all that I had to the poor, and to the rich, to the rich! And I could not!” At her look of puzzled curiosity, he explained quickly, with a passing smile, “But that is a Christmas secret, between Dr. Newbold and me. And besides, it is all over, now,--that little Christmas dream.” Again a long gaze into the fire where one can watch one’s wishes glowing, dying. “And I have desired most of all, to leave my work to someone who would understand and carry it on!” “Who could understand, Henry,” she whispered, “your work?” He turned his head toward her, quick and sunny. “You alone, perhaps, and therefore you will help him to understand.” “How?”