Back and forth the thoughts buffeted each other, and the Bishop sighed, and threw away his cigar, and then stopped and stared out at the darkening, great ocean.  The steady rush and pause and low wash of retreat did not calm him to-night.

“I’d like to turn it off for five minutes.  It’s so eternally right,” he said aloud and began to walk restlessly again.

Behind him came light steps, but he did not hear them on the soft sand, in the noise of a breaking wave.  A small, firm hand slipped into his was the first that he knew of another presence, and he did not need to look down at the bright head to know it was Eleanor, and the touch thrilled him in his loneliness.  Neither spoke, but swung on across the sand, side by side, the child springing easily to keep pace with his great step.  Beside the gift of English, Eleanor had its comrade gift of excellent silence.  Those who are born to know rightly the charm and the power and the value of words, know as well the value of the rests in the music.  Little Eleanor, her nervous fingers clutched around the Bishop’s big thumb, was pouring strength and comfort into him, and such an instinct kept her quiet.

So they walked for a long half-hour, the Bishop fighting out his battle, sometimes stopping, sometimes talking aloud to himself, but Eleanor, through it all, not speaking.  Once or twice he felt her face laid against his hand, and her hair that brushed his wrist, and the savage selfishness of reserve slowly dissolved in the warmth of that light touch and the steady current of gentleness it diffused through him.  Clearly and more clearly he saw his way and, as always happens, as he came near to the mountain, the mountain grew lower.  “Over the Alps lies Italy.”  Why should he count the height when the Italy of Dick’s happiness and Fielding’s duty done lay beyond?  The clean-handed, light-hearted disregard of self that had been his habit of mind always came flooding back like sunshine as he felt his decision made.  After all, doing a duty lies almost entirely in deciding to do it.  He stooped and picked Eleanor up in his arms.

“Isn’t the baby sleepy?  We’ve settled it together—­it’s all right now, Eleanor.  I’ll carry you back to Aunt Basha.”

“Is it all right now?” asked Eleanor, drowsily.  “No, I’ll walk,” kicking herself downward.  “But you come wiv me.”  And the Bishop escorted his lady-love to her castle, where the warden, Aunt Basha, was for this half hour making night vocal with lamentations for the runaway.

“Po’ lil lamb!” said Aunt Basha, with an undisguised scowl at the Bishop.  “Seems like some folks dunno nuff to know a baby’s bedtime.  Seems like de Lawd’s anointed wuz in po’ business, ti’in’ out chillens!”

“I’m sorry, Aunt Basha,” said the Bishop, humbly.  “I’ll bring her back earlier again.  I forgot all about the time.”

“Huh!” was all the response that Aunt Basha vouchsafed, and the Bishop, feeling himself hopelessly in the wrong, withdrew in discreet silence.