e cleared.

"'Their angels do always behold the face of my Father,'" and he smiled.
"I say it too, praise the Lord that she is six."

"Madge is lots more'n that," the soft little voice, with its gay,
courageous inflection, went on. "She's twenty. Isn't that old? You
aren't much different of that, are you?" and the heavy, cropped,
straight gold mass of her hair swung sideways as she turned her face up
to scrutinize the tall Bishop.

He smiled down at her. "Only thirty years different. I'm fifty,
Eleanor."

"Oh!" said Eleanor, trying to grasp the problem. Then with a sigh she
gave it up, and threw herself on the strength of maturity. "Is fifty
older'n twenty?" she asked.

More than once as they went side by side on the narrow foot-path across
the field the Bishop put out his hand to hold the little brown one near
it, but each time the child floated from his touch, and he smiled at the
unconscious dignity, the womanly reserve of the frank and friendly
little lady. "Thus far and no farther," he thought, with the quick
perception of character that was part of his power. But the Bishop was
as unconscious as the child of his own charm, of the magnetism in him
that drew hearts his way. Only once had it ever failed, and that was the
only time he had cared. But this time it was working fast as they walked
and talked together quietly, and when they reached the open door that
led from the fields into the little robing-room of Saint Peter's,
Eleanor had met her Waterloo. Being six, it was easy to say so, and she
did it with directness, yet without at all losing the dignity that was
breeding, that had come to her from generations, and that she knew of as
little as she knew the names of her bones. Three steps led to the
robing-room, and Eleanor flew to the top and turned, the childish figure
in its worn pink cotton dress facing the tall powerful one in sober
black broadcloth.

"I love you," she said. "I'll kiss you," and the long, strong little
arms were around his neck, and it seemed to the Bishop as if a kiss that
had never been given came to him now from the lips of the child of the
woman he had loved. As he put her down gently, from the belfry above
tolled suddenly a sweet, rolling note for service.

When the Bishop came out from church the "peace that passeth
understanding" was over him. The beautiful old words that to churchmen
are dear as their mothers' faces, haunting as the voices that make home,
held him yet in the