owing? What man is obliged to learn by the
laborious process of experience, woman's wondrous instinct tells her at
a glance; and so it had been with this cherished scheme, this
unhoped-for completion of their beautiful chantry. So much, at least,
he was allowed to reveal; and indeed, had he not done so, the window
itself would have spoken for him, since the first glance at its
touching subject and exquisite design would show it to have originated
in a woman's heart. This tribute to the sex was received with an
audible sigh of contentment, and the Bishop, always stimulated by such
evidence of his sway over his hearers, took up his theme with gathering
eloquence.

Yes--a woman's heart had planned the gift, a woman's hand had executed
it, and, might he add, without too far withdrawing the veil in which
Christian beneficence ever loved to drape its acts--might he add that,
under Providence, a book, a simple book, a mere tale, in fact, had had
its share in the good work for which they were assembled to give thanks?

At this unexpected announcement, a ripple of excitement ran through the
assemblage, and more than one head was abruptly turned in the direction
of Mrs. Fetherel, who sat listening in an agony of wonder and
confusion. It did not escape the observant novelist at her side that
she drew down her veil to conceal an uncontrollable blush, and this
evidence of dismay caused him to fix an attentive gaze on her, while
from her seat across the aisle, Mrs. Gollinger sent a smile of unctuous
approval.

"A book--a simple book--" the Bishop's voice went on above this flutter
of mingled emotions. "What is a book? Only a few pages and a little
ink--and yet one of the mightiest instruments which Providence has
devised for shaping the destinies of man . .. one of the most powerful
influences for good or evil which the Creator has placed in the hands
of his creatures..."

The air seemed intolerably close to Mrs. Fetherel, and she drew out her
scent-bottle, and then thrust it hurriedly away, conscious that she was
still the center of an unenviable attention. And all the while the
Bishop's voice droned on...

"And of all forms of literature, fiction is doubtless that which has
exercised the greatest sway, for good or ill, over the passions and
imagination of the masses. Yes, my friends, I am the first to
acknowledge it--no sermon, however eloquent, no theological treatise,
however learned and convincing, has ever inflamed the h