f humor. He was an incomparable
raconteur, and many an incident of village life gave him material for a
story which, with certain poetic license of embellishment that he
sometimes allowed himself, set his hearers in a roar. He was as ready
to hear a good story as to tell one, and his ringing laugh was a
delight. The Bishop talked much and well. His use of the pause in
speaking, with a momentary compression of the lips now and then between
clauses, heightened the effect of crispness in his felicitously chosen
phrases. He was a good listener if one had anything to say, but he was
not averse to presiding in monologue over a number of people, and often
did so, for his fund of talk was so rich that others, in his presence,
were sometimes slow to offer any contribution of their own. He was most
adroit at this sort of entertainment, and had a way of apparently
bringing others of the company into the conversation--usually those who
seemed rather shy and overawed,--without requiring them to utter so much
as a word. In the midst of his talk the Bishop would interject such a
remark as, "You will understand me, Mr. So-and-So, when I say"., or
"Mrs. Blank, you will be particularly interested to know"., turning
earnestly toward the person addressed. Of course Mr. So-and-So and Mrs.
Blank brightened up at being singled out by the great man, and beamed
with pleasure at having thus contributed to the conversation.

[Illustration: _C. A. Schneider_

THE RECTORY]

In the morning of every week-day, just as the village clock struck nine,
the Bishop could be seen issuing from Fernleigh, whence, after passing
the Rectory, he pursued a slow and stately course down the curved path
of the Cooper Grounds to the Clark Estate building, where he had an
office on the upper floor at the southwest corner. On warm summer days,
he discarded broadcloth, and was dressed in flannels of spotless white.
He walked with a stick, and there was a slight limp of the left leg, due
to an injury received in riding. So strong and erect was his bearing,
however, in spite of his more than three score years and ten, that the
slow gait seemed to be caused rather by preference than necessity, and
the limp really appeared to add to the majesty of his measured pace.
Anyone who joined him was obliged to walk as slowly as the Bishop, who
never hastened his steps, but conversed affably; now and then, as some
thought struck him forcibly, he paused abruptly in his walk, and sto