The Bishop, a gentlemanly cleric in orthodox hat and gaiters, arrived on Saturday with his examining chaplain.  Mr. Perrowne conducted them to Dr. Halbert’s, where the Squire, Mr. Douglas and Mr. Errol, with the ladies, were invited to meet them.  The Bishop turned out to be much more liberal and evangelical in his views than the clergyman under visitation.  On Sunday, there was a confirmation service, and, on the following Monday, St. Cuthbert’s put on its festal robes once more.  Mr. Douglas and Mr. Errol stood by Mr. Perrowne, and Miss Graves and Miss Carmichael by Miss Fanny, whom the doctor gave away in person.  The Bishop did his duty well, and afterwards honoured the wedding breakfast with his presence.  The sight of his diocesan kept Mr. Perrowne in order, and devolved the jocularity on the Squire and the doctor.  Mr. Terry was at home with Coristine, describing the ceremony; and somebody at the Halbert’s hospitable table was longing for a chance to replace him.  This, however, she could not effect without its being noticed.  The examining chaplain fell foul of Mr. Errol by remarking that, when Scotch Presbyterians came into the church, they generally did well, both in England and in Canada, several of them having risen to the episcopate.  “That minds me,” answered the minister, intentionally putting on his broad Scotch, “that minds me o’ Jockey Strachan, that was Bishop o’ Toronto.  He met a Kirk man aince, frae Markham, I’m thinkin’, that had a threadbare coat.  ‘Man,’ said he till’s auld freend, ‘yon’s a shockin’ worn-out coat.  Can yer freens i’ the Kirk no dae better than that by ye?’ ’Toot, toot, Jockey,’ said the Kirk man, ’what ails ye at the coat?  It’s no turned yet.’” The sensible Bishop saw that the chaplain, who was preparing to reply, would probably put his foot farther in, and turned the conversation into other channels.  Then the wedding presents were re-examined, the bride donned her travelling costume, and, amid affectionate leave takings, the doctor drove off his daughter and son-in-law, with the clerics, toward the distant railway station, en route for Ottawa, Montreal and Lake George.  The Bridesdale party went home, and, while Mrs. Carmichael and Miss Graves were attended by their respective cavaliers, Miss Carmichael flew to the bedside where Mr. Terry kept cheerful guard.

Everything hinged now upon the sick man’s health.  “He must be got away, John, before the winter comes,” the doctor had said to the Squire, and all wrought with this end in view.  Some time before Maguffin left, he had determined, with his Marjorie’s permission, to give up being shaved and let his beard grow, and now the beard was there, long, brown and silky, a very respectable beard.  But the face above it was very pale yet, and the cruel knife wounds were still sore, and the whole man enfeebled in limb by long bed-keeping.  One pleasant day, far on in September, the doctor allowed him to rise, and, between the Squire and Mr. Terry, he was raised up and dressed.  Then they carried the wasted form out into the autumn sun, and laid him on a couch on the verandah.  Marjorie and all the little Carruthers came to see him, with bouquets of garden flowers.  Timotheus ventured to pay his respects, and even Tryphena came round to congratulate him on his recovery.  “Shall I read Wordsworth to you, dear?” asked Miss Carmichael, ironically.