’At the end of July we were expecting a young relation and his bride to spend a week with us before returning to England, and we gave the Bishop the option of going to Bishop’s Court for the time, where he was always warmly welcomed.  Some years before, he would certainly have slipped away from the chatter and bustle; but now he decided to remain with us, and throw himself into the small interests around, in a way which touched and delighted the young couple greatly.  He put away his natural shrinking from society and his student ways, and was willing to enjoy everything as it came.  We had a curious instance at this time of the real difficulty the Bishop felt about writing sermons.  He had not attempted to preach, save at Mr. Dudley’s Church; but a week or two before he left us, Archdeacon Maunsell came to beg of him to preach at St. Mary’s, where he had often taken service formerly.  He promised to do so without any apparent hesitation, and said afterwards to us that he could not refuse such a request.  So on Wednesday he began to prepare a sermon.  He was sitting each morning in the room where I was at work, and he talked to me from time to time of the thoughts that were in his mind.  The subject was all that was implied in the words, “I have called thee by thy name,” the personal knowledge, interest, &c.; and I was rejoicing in the treat in store, when, to my dismay, I saw sheet after sheet, which had been written in his neat, clear hand as though the thoughts flowed on without effort, flung into the fire.  “I can’t write,” was said again and again, and the work put by for another day.  At last, on Saturday morning, he walked up to the parsonage to make his excuses.  Happily Dr. Maunsell would not let him off, so on Sunday the Bishop, without any notes or sermon, spoke to us out of the fulness of his heart about the Mission work, of its encouragements and its difficulties.  He described, in a way that none can ever forget who heard the plaintive tones of his voice and saw his worn face that day, what it was to be alone on an island for weeks, surrounded by noisy heathen, and the comfort and strength gained then by the thought that we who have the full privileges of Christian worship and communion were remembering such in our prayers.

’Our young friends sailed on Sunday, August 7; and we expected the Bishop to sail the next day, but the winds were foul and boisterous, and we had him with us till Friday morning, the 12th.  Those last days were very happy ones.  His thoughts went back to Melanesia and to his work; and every evening we drew him to tell of adventures and perils, and to describe the islands to us in a way he had scarcely ever done before.  I think it was partly to please our Maori maiden, who sat by his side on a footstool in the twilight, plying him with questions with so much lively natural interest that he warmed up in return.  Generally, he shrank into himself, and became reserved at once if pressed to tell of his