a stupendous energy. His Archbishop
said that he believed that the Bishop's chaplains died like flies, and
that he merely threw their dead bodies into the Loss, which flowed
beneath his palace windows, without even a burial service. His chaplains
and secretaries certainly worked themselves to the bone for him. They
could have told tales against him, but they never did. For it was a
strain to serve the Bishop, to get his robes thrown over him at the
right--I mean the last--second, to thrust him ruthlessly into his
carriage just in time to catch the tail ends of departing trains--he
generally travelled with the guard. His admirable life had been spent in
a ceaseless whirl. He had never had time to marry. He had hurried to the
altar when he was an eager curate with a pretty young bride who was a
stranger to him, whom his mother had chosen for him. During the years
that followed what little he saw of her at odd moments he liked. After
ten years of what he believed to be married life she died, leaving one
child; tactful to the last, pretty to the last, having made no claim
from first to last, kissing his hand, and thanking him for his love, and
for the beautiful years they had spent together.

His friends said that he bore her loss with heroism, but in reality he
missed her but little. Her death occurred just after he had become an
ardent suffragan. His daughter grew up in a few minutes, and quickly
took her mother's place. She was her mother over again in character and
appearance. His wife had lived in his house for ten years, his daughter
for twenty. By dint of time he learned to know her as he had never known
her mother. At twenty she married his chaplain.

The chaplain was a tall, stooping, fleckless, flawless, mannerless,
joyless personage, middle-aged at twenty-eight, with a voice like a
gong, with a metallic mind constructed of thought-tight compartments,
devoted body and soul to the Church, an able and indefatigable worker,
smelted from the choice ore of that great middle class from which, as we
know, all good things come. That he was a future ornament, or at any
rate an iron girder of the Church was sufficiently obvious.

The Bishop saw his worth, and ruefully endured him until the chaplain,
in the most suitable language, desired to become his son-in-law, and
that at the most inconceivably awkward moment, namely, just when the
Bishop had presented him with a living. The marriage had to be. The
daughter wished it w