tself apparent again. In spite of self-reproaches, her
strongest feeling, when she was left alone, was of joy that her freedom
still was hers.

CHAPTER V.

WHIMSY-WHAMSIES.

At Ashwood the sun was sinking after a bright April afternoon. Mrs.
Baxter sat in a chair on the lawn and discoursed wisdom to May Gaston and
Morewood. The rest of the party had gone for a walk to the top of what
Lady Richard called "Duty Hill"; it was the excursion obligatory on all
guests.

"The real reason," remarked Mrs. Baxter, who was making a garment--she
was under spiritual contract to make two a month--"why the Dean hasn't
risen higher is because he always has some whimsy-whamsy in his head."

"What are they? I never have 'em," said Morewood, relighting his pipe.

"You never have anything else," said Mrs. Baxter in a brief but
sufficient aside. "And, my dear," she continued to May, "what you want in
a bishop is reliability."

"The only thing I want in a bishop is absence," grunted Morewood.

"Reliability?" murmured May, half assenting, half questioning.

"Yes, my dear," said Mrs. Baxter, biting her thread. "Reliability. I
shall finish this petticoat to-morrow unless I have to drive with Lady
Richard. You don't want him to be original, or to do much, except his
confirmations and so on, of course; but you do want to be sure that he
won't fly out at something or somebody. Dan got a reputation for not
being quite reliable. I don't know how, because I haven't time to go into
his notions. But there it was. Somebody told the Prime Minister and he
crossed out Dan's name and put in John Wentworth's."

Morewood yawned obtrusively. "What a shame!" May murmured at random.

"It's just the same with a husband," Mrs. Baxter observed.

"Only it's rather more difficult to scratch out his name and put in John
Wentworth's," Morewood suggested.

May laughed. "But anyhow the Dean's a good husband, isn't he, Mrs.
Baxter?"

"Oh, yes, my dear. The same men very seldom fly out over notions and over
women."

Morewood raised himself to a sitting posture and observed solemnly,

"The whole history of science, art, and literature contradicts that last
observation."

Mrs. Baxter looked at him for a brief moment and went on with the
petticoat. May interpreted her look.

"So much the worse for the whole history!" she laughed. But a moment
later she went on, "I think I rather like whimsy-wh