over him without speaking. Thus she stood
for ten minutes looking down at him and listening. But there was no
sound; not a word, nor a moan, nor a sob. It was as though he also
were dead, but that a slight irregular movement of his fingers on
the top of his bald head, told her that his mind and body were still
active. "My lord," she said at last, "would you wish to see the
doctor when he comes?" She spoke very low and he did not answer her.
Then, after another minute of silence, she asked the same question
again.

"What doctor?" he said.

"Dr. Filgrave. We sent for him. Perhaps he is here now. Shall I go and
see, my lord?" Mrs. Draper found that her position there was weary and
she wished to escape. Anything on his behalf requiring trouble or
work she would have done willingly; but she could not stand there for
ever watching the motion of his fingers.

"I suppose I must see him," said the bishop. Mrs. Draper took this
as an order for her departure and crept silently out of the room,
closing the door behind her with the long protracted elaborate click
which is always produced by an attempt at silence on such occasions.
He did not care for noise or for silence. Had she slammed the door
he would not have regarded it. A wonderful silence had come upon
him which for the time almost crushed him. He would never hear that
well-known voice again!

He was free now. Even in his misery,--for he was very miserable,--he
could not refrain from telling himself that. No one could now press
uncalled-for into his study, contradict him in the presence of those
before whom he was bound to be authoritative, and rob him of all his
dignity. There was no one else of whom he was afraid. She had at
least kept him out of the hands of other tyrants. He was now his own
master, and there was a feeling,--I may not call it of relief, for as
yet there was more of pain in it than of satisfaction,--a feeling as
though he had escaped from an old trouble at a terrible cost of which
he could not as yet calculate the amount. He knew that he might now
give up all idea of writing to the archbishop.

She had in some ways, and at certain periods of his life, been very
good to him. She had kept his money for him and made things go
straight, when they had been poor. His interests had always been
her interests. Without her he would never have been a bishop. So,
at least, he told himself now, and so told himself probably with
truth. She had been very careful o