“Oh!” said the Bishop with comprehension.  “Dick Fielding.  Then Dick is my friend, too.  And people that are friends to the same people should be friends to each other—­that’s geometry, Eleanor, though it’s possibly not life.”

“Huh?” Eleanor stared, puzzled.

“Will you be friends with me, Eleanor Gray?  I knew your mother a long time ago, when she was Eleanor Gray.”  Eleanor yawned frankly.  That might be true, but it did not appear to her remarkable or interesting.  The deep voice went on, with a moment’s interval.  “Where is your mother?  Is she here?”

Eleanor laughed.  “Oh, no,” she said.  “Don’t you know?  What a funny man you are—­you know such a few things.  My muvver’s up in heaven.  She went when I was a baby, long, long ago.  I reckon she must have flewed,” she added, reflectively, raising clear eyes to the pale, heat-worn sky that gleamed through the branches.

The Bishop’s big hands went up to his face suddenly, and the strong fingers clasped tensely above his forehead.  Between his wrists one could see that his mouth was set in a hard line.  “Dead!” he said.  “And I never knew it.”

Eleanor dug a small russet heel unconcernedly into the ground.  “Naughty, naughty, naughty little grasshopper,” she began to chant, addressing an unconscious insect near the heel.  “Don’t you go and crawl up on the Bishop.  No, just don’t you.  ’Cause if you do, oh, naughty grasshopper, I’ll scrunch you!” with a vicious snap on the “scrunch.”

The Bishop lowered his hands and looked at her.  “I’m not being very interesting, Eleanor, am I?”

“Not very,” Eleanor admitted.  “Couldn’t you be some more int’rstin’?”

“I’ll try,” said the Bishop.  “But be careful not to hurt the poor grasshopper.  Because, you know, some people say that if he is a good grasshopper for a long time, then when he dies his little soul will go into a better body—­perhaps a butterfly’s body next time.”

Eleanor caught the thought instantly.  “And if he’s a good butterfly, then what’ll he be?  A hummin’-bird?  Let’s kill him quick, and see him turn into a butterfly.”

“Oh, no, Eleanor, you can’t force the situation.  He has to live out his little grasshopper life the best that he can, before he’s good enough to be a butterfly.  If you kill him now you might send him backward.  He might turn into what he was before—­a poor little blind worm perhaps.”

“Oh, my Lawd!” said Eleanor.

The Bishop was still a moment, and then repeated, quietly: 

    Slay not the meanest creature, lest thou slay
    Some humble soul upon its upward way.

“Oughtn’t to talk to yourself,” Eleanor shook her head disapprovingly.  “’Tisn’t so very polite.  Is that true about the grasshopper, Bishop, or is it a whopper?”

The Bishop thought for a moment.  “I don’t know, Eleanor,” he answered, gently.

“You don’t know so very much, do you?” inquired Eleanor, not as despising but as wondering, sympathizing with ignorance.