“I am but the humble instrument, my dear young friend,” said the bishop; “let us both give thanks to the almighty Searcher of hearts.  Let us hope that the work is perfect—­for then, you will be the occasion of ‘joy in heaven.’  And now,” continued he, “let me ask you one question.  Do you feel in that state of mind that you could bear any affliction which might befall you, without repining?”

“I trust, Sir,” answered I, “that I could bear it, not only cheerfully, but thankfully; and I now acknowledge that it is good for me that I have been in trouble.”

“Then all is right,” said he; “and with such feelings I may venture to give you this letter, which I promised the writer to deliver with my own hand.”

As soon as my eye caught the superscription, “Gracious Heaven!” exclaimed I; “it is from my Emily.”

“Even so,” said the bishop.

I tore it open.  It contained only six lines, which were as follows:—­

“Our mutual kind friend, the bishop, has proved to me how proud and how foolish I have been.  Forgive me, dear Frank, for I too have suffered much; and come as soon as possible to your ever affectionate

“EMILY.”

This, then, was the object of the venerable bishop’s absence.  Bending beneath age and infirmity, he had undertaken a journey of three hundred miles, in order to ensure the temporal as well as eternal welfare of a perfect stranger—­to effect a reconciliation, without which he saw that my worldly happiness was incomplete.  I was afterwards informed, that notwithstanding the weight of his character and holy office, he had found Emily more decided in her rejection than he had anticipated; and it was not until he had sharply rebuked her for her pride and unforgiving temper, that she could be brought to listen with patience to his arguments.  But having at length convinced her that the tenure of her own hopes depended on her forgiveness of others, she relented, acknowledged the truth of his remarks, and her undiminished affection for me.  While she made this confession, she was in the same position before the bishop, that I was when I received her letter—­on my knees, and in tears.

He gave me his hand, raised me up, “And, now, my young friend,” said he, “let me give you one caution.  I hope and I trust that your repentance is sincere.  If it be not, the guilt must rest on your head; but I trust in God that all is as it should be.  I will not, therefore, detain you any longer:  you must be impatient to be gone.  Refreshment is prepared for you:  my horses will take you the first stage.  Have you funds sufficient to carry you through? for it is a long journey, as my old bones can testify.”

I assured him that I was sufficiently provided; and, expressing my thanks for his kindness, wished that it was in my power to prove my gratitude.  “Put me to the test, my lord,” said I, “if you possibly can.”