“—­When I confess that this pen, which for once at least has proved itself so much mightier than the sword, is that which was inspired to trace the simple narrative of ‘Through a Glass Brightly’”—­Mrs. Fetherel looked up with a gasp of mingled relief and anger—­“when I tell you, my dear friends, that it was your Bishop’s own work which first roused the mind of one of his flock to the crying need of a chantry window, I think you will admit that I am justified in celebrating the triumphs of the pen, even though it be the modest instrument which your own Bishop wields.”

The Bishop paused impressively, and a faint gasp of surprise and disappointment was audible throughout the chantry.  Something very different from this conclusion had been expected, and even Mrs. Gollinger’s lips curled with a slightly ironic smile.  But Archer Hynes’s attention was chiefly reserved for Mrs. Fetherel, whose face had changed with astonishing rapidity from surprise to annoyance, from annoyance to relief, and then back again to something very like indignation.

The address concluded, the actual ceremony of the unveiling was about to take place, and the attention of the congregation soon reverted to the chancel, where the choir had grouped themselves beneath the veiled window, prepared to burst into a chant of praise as the Bishop drew back the hanging.  The moment was an impressive one, and every eye was fixed on the curtain.  Even Hynes’s gaze strayed to it for a moment, but soon returned to his neighbor’s face; and then he perceived that Mrs. Fetherel, alone of all the persons present, was not looking at the window.  Her eyes were fixed in an indignant stare on the Bishop; a flush of anger burned becomingly under her veil, and her hands nervously crumpled the beautifully printed program of the ceremony.

Hynes broke into a smile of comprehension.  He glanced at the Bishop, and back at the Bishop’s niece; then, as the episcopal hand was solemnly raised to draw back the curtain, he bent and whispered in Mrs. Fetherel’s ear: 

“Why, you gave it yourself!  You wonderful woman, of course you gave it yourself!”

Mrs. Fetherel raised her eyes to his with a start.  Her blush deepened and her lips shaped a hasty “No”; but the denial was deflected into the indignant murmur—­“It wasn’t his silly book that did it anyhow!”

THE LADY’S MAID’S BELL

I

IT was the autumn after I had the typhoid.  I’d been three months in hospital, and when I came out I looked so weak and tottery that the two or three ladies I applied to were afraid to engage me.  Most of my money was gone, and after I’d boarded for two months, hanging about the employment-agencies, and answering any advertisement that looked any way respectable, I pretty nearly lost heart, for fretting hadn’t made me fatter, and I didn’t see why my luck should ever turn.  It did though—­or I thought so at the time.  A Mrs. Railton, a friend of the lady that first brought me out to the States, met me one day and stopped to speak to me:  she was one that had always a friendly way with her.  She asked me what ailed me to look so white, and when I told her, “Why, Hartley,” says she, “I believe I’ve got the very place for you.  Come in to-morrow and we’ll talk about it.”