The poor little hero!  If I had only known!  He was battling like a giant, and I did not guess it.  Alone, all alone, in the midst of millions of his fellow-men, he was fighting his fight.  Torn by his horror of the asylum and his fidelity to truth and the right, he clung steadfastly to truth and the right; but so alone was he that he did not dare to trust even me.  He had learned his lesson well—­too well.

But I was soon to know.  One day the Bishop disappeared.  He had told nobody that he was going away; and as the days went by and he did not reappear, there was much gossip to the effect that he had committed suicide while temporarily deranged.  But this idea was dispelled when it was learned that he had sold all his possessions,—­his city mansion, his country house at Menlo Park, his paintings, and collections, and even his cherished library.  It was patent that he had made a clean and secret sweep of everything before he disappeared.

This happened during the time when calamity had overtaken us in our own affairs; and it was not till we were well settled in our new home that we had opportunity really to wonder and speculate about the Bishop’s doings.  And then, everything was suddenly made clear.  Early one evening, while it was yet twilight, I had run across the street and into the butcher-shop to get some chops for Ernest’s supper.  We called the last meal of the day “supper” in our new environment.

Just at the moment I came out of the butcher-shop, a man emerged from the corner grocery that stood alongside.  A queer sense familiarity made me look again.  But the man had turned and was walking rapidly away.  There was something about the slope of the shoulders and the fringe of silver hair between coat collar and slouch hat that aroused vague memories.  Instead of crossing the street, I hurried after the man.  I quickened my pace, trying not to think the thoughts that formed unbidden in my brain.  No, it was impossible.  It could not be—­not in those faded overalls, too long in the legs and frayed at the bottoms.

I paused, laughed at myself, and almost abandoned the chase.  But the haunting familiarity of those shoulders and that silver hair!  Again I hurried on.  As I passed him, I shot a keen look at his face; then I whirled around abruptly and confronted—­the Bishop.

He halted with equal abruptness, and gasped.  A large paper bag in his right hand fell to the sidewalk.  It burst, and about his feet and mine bounced and rolled a flood of potatoes.  He looked at me with surprise and alarm, then he seemed to wilt away; the shoulders drooped with dejection, and he uttered a deep sigh.

I held out my hand.  He shook it, but his hand felt clammy.  He cleared his throat in embarrassment, and I could see the sweat starting out on his forehead.  It was evident that he was badly frightened.

“The potatoes,” he murmured faintly.  “They are precious.”

Between us we picked them up and replaced them in the broken bag, which he now held carefully in the hollow of his arm.  I tried to tell him my gladness at meeting him and that he must come right home with me.