We talked on, being joined by Mr. Harry Carpenter--the Bishop's eldest son--who frankly declared himself to be a happy, recently-called barrister, and just now lecturing for the University extension movement. We said "Good-night." When I reached my room I sat down by the fire and remembered that the Bishop was fond of his joke. He has a name--William Boyd Carpenter--the latter of which is capable of a very merry conversion. The story is told how, before being appointed to the See of Ripon, he once married a young couple with the assurance that he was not only a Carpenter but a Joiner. Only a few months ago he was about to lay the foundation stone of a new vicarage. The architect handed him the trowel, etc., inviting him to become "an operative mason for a few moments." [Illustration: THE DINING-ROOM. _From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._] "I would rather remain a working Carpenter," was the witty reply. I stirred my fire, and amongst the flickering embers I could almost see the faces of a happy pair at Christ Church, Lancaster Gate. The Bishop was officiating. The charming though nervous bride experienced some difficulty in taking off her glove at the right moment to receive the wedding ring. And a very soft whisper of kindly assurance came from the clergyman's lips. "Don't be flurried," he said, _sotto voce_; "there's plenty of time, and they are bound to wait for us!" When I awoke in the morning I looked from my window. It was very early, and the sun was lighting up the tower of Ripon Cathedral as it rose above the tree tops. It was a fair scene. You could count a dozen rabbits hopping about on the grassy lawn leading down to the tennis court, and sitting nervously for a few moments, and glancing anxiously this way, that way, and every way in expectancy of a disturbing footstep. And as I looked out upon the beautiful scene of autumn-tinted trees and grassy mounds, with just a last rose of summer here and there, I could almost distinguish those little Arabs from the by-streets and slums of Leeds. They were running about in tatters, shouting themselves hoarse with delight, and turning unlimited catharine-wheels in their happy delirium. I could hear them distinctly clapping their hands; I could not hear the patter of their feet, though--the poor little fellows were bootless. Then they ceased their play for a moment. Somebody was beckoning to them to follow him. He quietly led them beneath the branches of the very biggest tree in the garden. He pointed his finger upwards. It was a very short sermon--a sermon from a text set up by Nature which the tiniest mite amongst this tattered congregation could understand. [Illustration: THE CORRIDOR. _From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._] "Little children," he said, "I want you to grow up like this tree--with nothing between you and Heaven, nothing save the branches which you must shoot out--branches of help to others." And the children went to play again.