of another man. Above all, he shrunk from the
thought of his daughter's marriage as from a profanation. She was so
like him in certain mental traits and interests that he could not
appreciate the temperamental difference that kept them far apart.

As the hands of the clock crept toward eleven, he realised that the
morning was slipping away, and that he could wait no longer if he was
to see President Renshaw before he went to lunch. A few minutes later,
he stood in the hall, a distinguished and old-fashioned figure, with
his silk hat, his long cape, and his gold-headed ebony cane. Lena
Harpster was there, dusting an antique chair of ecclesiastical design
that looked as if it had been imported from the chancel of some English
cathedral.

"Lena," he said, laying his letters on the table and beginning to draw
on his gloves, "don't forget to give these to the postman when he
comes; and tell Miss Wycliffe I shall be home to lunch."

She opened the door for his exit and started back against the wall with
a little cry, as if she had seen a ghost, for there, blocking the
bishop's way, his hand extended to touch the bell, stood Mayor Emmet.
The bishop, too much surprised to note the panic of his servant, was
silent for a moment. It did not occur to him that the call could be on
any one but himself. How great would his astonishment have been, had
he known that poor Lena was almost fainting beside him with the wild
hope that her lover had come to claim her at last! How great his
stupefaction, could he have seen his daughter standing midway on the
stairs, one hand on the baluster, the other raised to her heart in
petrifying fear! It was fortunate indeed for Felicity that she had
time, unobserved in the shadow of the stairway, to regain her
self-control. Had she descended a moment earlier, had she been at the
door when Lena threw it open, she could hardly have answered for
herself.

The bishop retreated a step, as if he would thereby invite his
visitor's entrance, but, busy with his gloves, his cane hugged under
one arm, he failed, without the effect of discourtesy, to extend his
hand.

"Ah, good-morning, Mr. Emmet," he said in his courtly and deliberate
manner, and with that suggestion of a purr in his voice which always
betokened concealment and a latent ability to spring. "You find me
just about to go out, but I still have a little leeway. Won't you step
in?"

He was not without curiosity in regard to the objec