Ann, all unconscious of his presence, opened the door; she paused, hesitatingly silent.

“Well, Ann?” The voice was gentle, resigned.

“A telegram, Father.”

He took the envelope which somehow reminded him of the yellow flames of his fire and seemed reaching out to grasp him.  With a murmured prayer he tore it open.  It was a message from the Bishop.  The words were few, but only too easily understood by the priest who sought obscurity: 

“Forgive me, my friend.  I had not the heart to tell you the truth.  I need you now, and then, perhaps, those greater than I. You may stay but a very little while.  Come to me immediately after Christmas.”

The flame-colored message went to its kind amid the great logs of the fireplace.  Father Murray picked up his book again, turned its pages, and read softly to himself: 

  “Ah! is Thy love indeed
  A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed,
  Suffering no flowers except its own to mount? 
    Ah! must—­
    Designer Infinite—­
  Ah! must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it?”