Charred Wood

former visits to church services to know that the sermon was about to begin. Early for dinner, he decided to pass the time listening to what the Bis

little girls about to be confirmed, and directly a

y a veil which fell in soft long folds to the bottom of the short skirts. The boys were in black, each with a white ribbon around his right arm. These boys all had serious faces, and had evidently been prepared well for the receptio

tirely to the children. He told them in simple language, which Mark found himself admiring, the meaning and importance

quite a contrast to Father Murray who sat near by. Mark noticed that the pastor did not wear the manteletta of a prelate, but on

as he stood before them, crozier in hand and mitre on head. Mark found that he was growing more attentive, and liking the Bishop even better as the sermon went on. More than that, he found himse

lusion that the Bishop had seen in the congregation somebody he had not expected in that place and at that time. Instinctively Mark's gaze followed the Bishop's. Across the aisle, and in a direct line with himself, sat Ruth, veiled as usual, and Madame Neuville. For an instant only the Bish

church until it rested upon the girl with the veil. He, too, seemed startled, but gave scarcely a sign as he turned quickly away. When the ceremony had ended Mark left his pew, looking straight at Ruth as he turned to face the door. He imagined that her eyes looked directly into his; but if they did they looked at him as a stranger. He could have seen a smile under the veil if it had been there, but there was none. Still more worried, he left

y. The old housekeeper met him a

r, till the Father comes to present ye to His Lordship. He'd be wantin' to do that him

ould hear her rattling the dishes and pans, all the while issuing orders to her assistants for the day. Ann was quite the most important p

d pace the room, a fact which caused him no little wonder. The Bishop had not impressed him as a man of nervous temperament. Mark now heard him sit down again, crunchi

e the

rk was sure belonged to

o say, Bishop

was deep distress in his tones.

church except her attendant and herself. She was crying, and she threw back the

unate man. So he has brought her here after all. I am afraid, Father, I did not do right w

to escape. He could not help hearing. His uneasiness became a great fear, and he felt that his face was bl

beyond understanding. He seems so good, and yet to have done a thing

ther Darcy's?" asked the Bishop anxiously. "He lives in t

ill

enough to make him feel that his duty toward Ruth was to wait. It was something he would not have d

en he hung up the receiver, just as Father Murray stepped into the dini

en the folding-doors. The Bishop was standing. The secretary entered from the hall. The Bishop's face was gr

Lordship-or is it Ireland, Mr. Griffin? Mr. Griffin is going to

you in the church, sir. But I am very sorry, Monsignore, that I am

ry saved the Bishop an

he corner. It has become necessary for the Bishop to go to Father Darcy's before taking the train back to

rray almo

to your staying. It is customary, is it not? I shall never be able to-" and th

e misery of the world wa

but circumstances compel me to leave at once. No one regrets the necessity more tha

time had the prelate's coat and hat in his hand. The valises

ut out his h

" he said. "I hope we m

made one step in his direction. But Father Murray took no heed. Crushed by grief, he stared unseeing into space. The Bishop turned abruptly and followed his secretary to the door. Mark heard them go

ng back an order to one of her assistant

tween the two rooms. As she came up, Mark pointed to the silent figure in the cha

?" she cried. "What

Murray did

?" she asked sharply,

on

! he wouldn't eat here-again!" Her face showed an agony of rage.

arose, and Ann

"hush." Then, turning to

d, feeble man. Mark felt that he could not break the tension, but the priest relieved it himself. His voice

you ever read T

her, I h

truth, thou oughtest never to be so much dejected and troubled for any adversity; but rather to rejoice and give thanks, yea, to account this as a special subject of joy, that afflicti

s never broken bread with me since-but let that pass. Come in and eat.

wn bitter bread, too, as