fternoon when the Evangeline, gliding smoothly over the
polished surface of the bay, drew in towards the Consolidated dock, and
Clark, watching from the shadow of a mountain of bales of pulp
assembled for shipment, saw the Indian pilot amidship at the wheel and
the bishop, in a big, coarse, straw hat, standing in the slim bow, a
coil of rope in his hands and a broad smile on his big sunburnt face.

"Catch!" The bight of the rope whistled through the air and struck
smartly at his guest's feet.

The latter laughed, picked it up and made fast. It struck him suddenly
that it was curious the bishop should be throwing him a rope. Then he
reflected that it was the bishop and not himself who needed help.

The former was very gay, his kindly face alight with amusement and
anticipation. Presently came a throb from the engine room, and the
Evangeline sheered off down the river, past the new St. Marys where
staring red brick buildings shouldered up out of the old time houses,
past the See Mouse, while a flag fluttered jerkily down from the tall
mast at whose top it flew when the bishop was at home, past the
American side, where Clark's big power house stretched its gray length
at the edge of the river, and on till they came to the long point that
closes the upper reach, and just then both men turned and looked up
stream at the vanishing bulk of the huge structures beside the rapids,
and the flat line of tremulous foam that marked the rapids themselves.
The voice of them was, at this distance, mute.

The yacht glided on and still neither spoke, Clark was full of the
thought that, for the second time in seven years, he had deliberately
left his work. Four hours ago the thing would have seemed grotesque,
but glancing at the bishop's broad back, he realized that here was a
friendly interceptor to whom he had been wise to yield. The miles slid
smoothly by, and still neither talked. Each was busy with the
contented reflection that in the other he had found one who possessed
the gift of understanding silence.

The Evangeline rested that evening not far from where Clark had
anchored so recently. He sat motionless, breathing in the welcome
benison of the spot, till the Indian pilot put out port and starboard
lamps whose soft red and green shone steadily into the gathering dusk.

"Is there a mission here?" asked the visitor presently.

"No, but there's the best bass fishing in Lake Huron," grunted the
bishop placidly, already