ILLUSTRATIONS

"I took her in my arms and held her"

"Many waters shall not wash out love”, said Eleanor

He stared into the smoldering fire

"Look!” he said, and Miles swung about toward the ridge behind

"I got behind a turn and fired as a man came on alone"

"I reckon I shall have to ask you to not pick any more of those roses,” a voice said

"You see, the boat is very new and clean, Miss,” he was saying

I felt myself pulled by two pairs of hands

THE BISHOP’S SILENCE

The Bishop was walking across the fields to afternoon service.  It was a hot July day, and he walked slowly—­for there was plenty of time—­with his eyes fixed on the far-off, shimmering sea.  That minstrel of heat, the locust, hidden somewhere in the shade of burning herbage, pulled a long, clear, vibrating bow across his violin, and the sound fell lazily on the still air—­the only sound on earth except a soft crackle under the Bishop’s feet.  Suddenly the erect, iron-gray head plunged madly forward, and then, with a frantic effort and a parabola or two, recovered itself, while from the tall grass by the side of the path gurgled up a high, soft, ecstatic squeal.  The Bishop, his face flushed with the stumble and the heat and a touch of indignation besides, straightened himself with dignity and felt for his hat, while his eyes followed a wriggling cord that lay on the ground, up to a small brown fist.  A burnished head, gleaming in the sunshine like the gilded ball on a church steeple, rose suddenly out of the waves of dry grass, and a pink-ginghamed figure, radiant with joy and good-will, confronted him.  The Bishop’s temper, roughly waked up by the unwilling and unepiscopal war-dance just executed, fell back into its chains.

“Did you tie that string across the path?”

“Yes,” The shining head nodded.  “Too bad you didn’t fell ’way down.  I’m sorry.  But you kicked awf’ly.”

“Oh!  I did, did I?” asked the Bishop.  “You’re an unrepentant young sinner.  Suppose I’d broken my leg?”

The head nodded again.  “Oh, we’d have patzed you up,” she said cheerfully.  “Don’t worry.  Trust in God.”

The Bishop jumped.  “My child,” he said, “who says that to you?”

“Aunt Basha.”  The innocent eyes faced him without a sign of embarrassment.  “Aunt Basha’s my old black mammy.  Do you know her?  All her name’s longer’n that.  I can say it.”  Then with careful, slow enunciation, “Bathsheba Salina Mosina Angelica Preston.”

“Is that your little bit of name too?” the Bishop asked, “Are you a Preston?”

“Why, of course.”  The child opened her gray eyes wide.  “Don’t you know my name?  I’m Eleanor.  Eleanor Gray Preston.”

For a moment again the locust had it all to himself.  High and insistent, his steady note sounded across the hot, still world.  The Bishop looked down at the gray eyes gazing upward wonderingly, and through a mist of years other eyes smiled at him.  Eleanor Gray—­the world is small, the life of it persistent; generations repeat themselves, and each is young but once.  He put his hand under the child’s chin and turned up the baby face.