“Ah!” said he—­if that may stand for the sound that stood for the Bishop’s reverie.  “Ah!  Whom were you named for, Eleanor Gray?”

“For my own muvver.”  Eleanor wriggled her chin from the big hand and looked at him with dignity.  She did not like to be touched by strangers.  Again the voices stopped and the locust sang two notes and stopped also, as if suddenly awed.

“Your mother,” repeated the Bishop, “your mother!  I hope you are worthy of the name.”

“Yes, I am,” said Eleanor heartily.  “Bug’s on your shoulder, Bishop!  For de Lawd’s sake!” she squealed excitedly, in delicious high notes that a prima donna might envy; then caught the fat grasshopper from the black clerical coat, and stood holding it, lips compressed and the joy of adventure dancing in her eyes.  The Bishop took out his watch and looked at it, as Eleanor, her soul on the grasshopper, opened her fist and flung its squirming contents, with delicious horror, yards away.  Half an hour yet to service and only five minutes’ walk to the little church of Saint Peter’s-by-the-Sea.

“Will you sit down and talk to me, Eleanor Gray?” he asked, gravely.

“Oh, yes, if there’s time,” assented Eleanor, “but you mustn’t be late to church, Bishop.  That’s naughty.”

“I think there’s time.  How do you know who I am, Eleanor?”

“Dick told me.”

The Bishop had walked away from the throbbing sunshine into the green-black shadows of a tree, and seated himself with a boyish lightness in piquant contrast with his gray-haired dignity—­a lightness that meant athletic years.  Eleanor bent down the branch of a great bush that faced him and sat on it as if a bird had poised there.  She smiled as their eyes met, and began to hum an air softly.  The startled Bishop slowly made out a likeness to the words of the old hymn that begins

    Am I a soldier of the Cross,
    A follower of the Lamb?

Sweetly and reverently she sang it, over and over, with a difference.

    Am I shoulder of a hoss,
    A quarter of a lamb?

sang Eleanor.

The Bishop exploded into a great laugh that drowned the music.

“Aunt Basha taught you that, too, didn’t she?” he asked, and off he went into another deep-toned peal.

“I thought you’d like that, ’cause it’s a hymn and you’re a Bishop,” said Eleanor, approvingly.  Her effort was evidently meeting with appreciation.  “You can talk to me now, I’m here.”  She settled herself like a Brownie, elbows on knees, her chin in the hollows of small, lean hands, and gazed at him unflinchingly.

“Thank you,” said the Bishop, sobering at once, but laughter still in his eyes.  “Will you be kind enough to tell me then, Eleanor, who is Dick?”

Eleanor looked astonished, “You don’t know anybody much, do you?” and there was gentle pity in her voice.  “Why, Dick, he’s—­why, he’s—­why, you see, he’s my friend.  I don’t know his uvver names, but Mr. Fielding, he’s Dick’s favver.”