Netty, who was quick to read the signs, saw that something was wrong, and that her mother was eager to get rid of her guests. She expedited the farewells with something of her mother's tact, and with an artificial regret that deceived no one. The bishop went unbidden to the study of his old friend, the rector, ostensibly to say good-bye, but in reality to drop a few hints concerning the unpleasant complaints that had reached him during the year from John Swinton's creditors. He knew Swinton's worth, his over-generous nature, his impulsive optimism and his great-hearted Christianity; but a rector whom his parishioners threatened to make bankrupt was an anxiety in the diocese. While the clergyman listened to the bishop's friendly words, he could not conceal the misery in his heart. "What's the matter?" cried the bishop at last, when John Swinton burst into tears, and turned away with a sob. The rector waved his hand to the telegram lying on the table, and the bishop took it up. "Dreadful! A terrible blow! Words of sympathy are of little avail at the present moment, old friend," he said, placing his hand on the other's shoulder. "Everyone's heart will open to you, John, in this time of trouble. The Lord giveth and He taketh away. Your son has died the death of an honorable, upright man. We are all proud of him, as you will be when you are more resigned. Good-bye, John. This is a time when a man is best left to the care of his wife." The parting handgrip between the bishop and the stricken father was long and eloquent of feeling, and the churchman's voice was husky as he uttered the final farewell. Soon, everyone was gone. The door closed behind the last gushing social personage, and the rector was seated by the fire, with his face buried in his hands. Netty came quietly to his side. "Father, something serious is the matter with mother. You've had news from the war. What is it--nothing has happened to Harry?" "No, child--your brother." "Oh!" The unguarded exclamation expressed a world of relief. Then, Netty's shallow brain commenced to work, and she murmured: "Is Dick wounded or--?" "The worst, Netty dear. He is gone." He spoke with his face still hidden. "Go to your mother," he pleaded, for he wished to be alone. A furious anger against the war--against all war and bloodshed, was rising up within him. All a father's protective instinct of his offspring burst forth. Revenge entered into his soul. He beat the air with clenched fists, and with distended eyes saw the muzzles of rifles presented at his helpless boy. Of a sudden, he remembered Mr. Barnby's accusation against his son's honor. The horrible, abominable suggestion of forgery.