his begins to border on a theological
discussion, let us have some strawberries and cream. They are my own
berries, and the cream, Mr. Filmer, is the product of that excellent
yearling you were kind enough to send me last summer."

They moved into the study and were presently joined by Mrs. Dibbott and
Mrs. Worden.

"We have seen the yacht," said the latter enthusiastically, "and she is
lovely, but how do you pronounce her name?"

The Bishop's eyes twinkled--"Just now it's Z-e-n-o-b-i-a, but that's
the name of a heathen queen and I don't believe the Synod would stand
for it. Can you ladies suggest something more suitable? You know what
her work will be."

Mrs. Dibbott thought hard, and Mrs. Worden's gray eyes grew soft.
Admirable women were these, staunch and loyal, the helpmates of men
through lonely years that had passed in St. Marys. But too often the
men did not realize this till the shadows lengthened.

"She'll be a messenger, won't she?" said Mrs. Worden.

"Of hope and comfort, if I can make her so," he answered gently. "I
can regularly reach places now that it was very hard to get at before."

There fell a little silence, while, to the rest came the picture of
this wise man and true, cruising in storm and sunshine through the
myriad islands of his diocese, with his good cheer and his
understanding heart and his great tenderness for all living beings.

"May I make you a flag?" said Mrs. Dibbott presently.

"Splendid, I haven't one. You might put on my crest. It's an Irish
one with a complete menagerie of animals."

"And some of the rest of us will provide the linen," added Mrs. Worden,
who was a famous housekeeper.

"My dear ladies, your sex is really the backbone of ours and not the
missing rib," said the bishop who, when he was genuinely touched, often
relapsed into his native humor. "But what shall we call the boat? I
can't go on missionary voyages with an Indian pilot and a Scotch
engineer in a slim, black, piratical looking vessel that flies the name
of a heathen queen. Even my gaiters wouldn't save me from being
misunderstood."

"Would the name 'Evangeline' do?" asked a gentle voice as Mrs. Manson,
who had been listening intently, moved a little closer. She breathed
the word very softly and her large expressive eyes shot an uncertain
glance at the broad back of her husband who stood just out of hearing.

"Evangeline!" The bishop had a sudden thrill in his tones.
"Evangeline she sh