"If I were you, I should try a better line of business," he said. "Ghosts frighten silly women, and highwaymen are not very creditable, on the whole." "Yes," agreed Sandy. "We're goin' to. Next we're goin' to be pioneers and settlers." "Ah, I see. And where are you going to settle?" Sandy's bright eyes were turned suspiciously to the kind ones looking down upon him. He fidgeted uneasily, and a smile came across the Bishop's face. "I see," he said. "Perhaps you have not yet made up your minds." Sandy looked uncomfortable. "Not 'zactly," he confessed. "Truth is, it depends--I don't fink Dave would like me to tell. It's such a grand plan," he went on enthusiastically, "it 'ud be such a pity----" "To have it spoilt. Well, don't get into more mischief than you can help," the Bishop cautioned, "and don't do anything to make your mother uneasy." "Mother? Oh, mother'll laugh--she always does. You see, the bother is," confided Sandy, "there ain't no places to pioneer--every bit's taken. An' we've on'y just thought on it; an' it's splendid. We want a girl badly, though. Margie? No, Margie's no good. Settlers has wives an' squaws," went on Sandy pensively, "and we've on'y got Barbe lately, an' she's aw'fly little. 'Sides, you have to take such care on her--she's the on'y one Mr. Pelham's got. There's a lot of us, but mother says she cudn't spare not the littlest bit of one. So much less him his one, an' such a little one. It's a 'sponsibility," sighed Sandy, "when you want to do fings." Through the open window came the musical sound of the chimes from the cathedral. The Bishop, with a quick sigh, rose. "There is a quarter to twelve. Your father will be going to bed. Fetch David quickly." "Should fink he's cleaned by now," said Sandy hopefully. "He was rubbin' himself wiv the leaves off the trees--drippin' wet." Mr. Bethune opened his front door in response to a low knocking, which at first he did not hear. His eyes had the unseeing, far-away look in them of a man disturbed in a possessing line of thought. The red light in the hall shone on the face of the Bishop, who entered and stood on the doormat for a minute, in such a position as to shield the entrance of the two muddy boys. "Here is the _Guardian_ for you," he said, "with a very appreciative notice of your paper." Then he went on, "And tell Marjorie to-morrow morning not to be too cross with the state of the boys' clothes. They've been in mischief, but it won't happen again--not the same sort." [Illustration: The father pretended not to hear the scuffling of small feet.] The two men looked at one another and laughed, and the father pretended not to hear the scuffling of small feet upon the stairs. The Bishop went home with no weight on his conscience--only a little pathetic envy of the man he had just left. Somehow those stifled scufflings up the stairs had gone straight to the depths of his very tender and lonely heart. * * * * *