“You did not quite mean, did you, that the dullness, the boredom, is all the time present with you? Only sometimes? It is very puzzling to believe ennui of you who seem so alert. You are very brave at concealing it,--you must know the remedy better than I do, for it is one of the things that have not been chosen for me to bear, for I still get up in the morning expecting new things to happen. I did this very day.” Involuntary mocking pulled at her lips. “New things _are_ happening to us both to-day!” “Yes!” he murmured, while his face was shadowed, then reverting, “To be dull every day! It seems to me almost the saddest thing you have said to me! I wish it were not so! I wish I had the right word to say for that!” He sat silent, hesitant and doubtful. “Henry, say out to me all that you have in mind to say. I need it. There are no veils left!” His face grew clear with light. “You are looking into dreams again!” she cried, “but now tell me what you see!” “What I see for you?” “Yes, that belongs to me now.” “I think I see for you what might be,” he began hesitant. “Mysteriously, there is in you still the power of effort together with the power of wisdom. It seems to me that it is like a cup in your hand, your influence. And if it should be all in vain,--I know to-day that much we desire to do must be in vain. We understand that together, you and I. I feel, you know, as if the soul of a man and the soul of a town were in your keeping for a little while,--if you should take them, might it not be that new thing you want? Might it not bring you joy and forgetting? My work has meant that to me. And I know it is very lonely if one never forgets. And even if it were all in vain, might it not be life and hope to you, Lucy? I do not want to preach any preachments, you know that, surely. I can only tell you what I have lived. Perhaps I have never lived in reality--I half guess it this evening, looking back, and looking forward, seeing all that I have not done. It isn’t very easy to grow old, not easy for anyone to feel the body breaking beyond mending, and to see all that is unfinished, but I believe, Lucy, an enthusiasm is the one thing to keep us warm, us old ones. I’ve done a plentiful amount of failing, but I wish I could succeed in one thing now,--I wish God would let me give you the word of joy to-night!” It was so quiet in the old room, that low-lighted space, four-square, swung out upon the night. The Bishop’s long fingers passed slowly across his brow, trying to smooth away that darkness which seemed shutting in upon his brain.