dy at the top of the list now. He has surely
won his spurs to-day."

But again the shadow of the meaning smile was on the Bishop's face,
and he said nothing; so the Dean looked wise and mysterious as he
slapped the young pastor on the back and said:

"Proficiat, God bless you! You have done well, and I am proud of you,
but wait and listen." Then his voice dropped to a whisper. "I was
talking to the Bishop about you."

The dinner? Well, Anne excelled herself. Is not that enough to say?
But perhaps you have never tasted Anne's cooking? Then you surely have
heard of it, for all the Diocese knows about it, and everyone said
that Broidy was in his usual good luck when Anne left the Dean's and
went to keep house for the priest at Alta.

Story followed story, as dish followed dish, and a chance to rub up
the wit that had been growing rusty in the country missions for months
never passed by unnoticed.

The Dean was toastmaster.

"Right Reverend Bishop and Reverend Fathers," he began, when he had
enforced silence with the handle of his fork, "it is my pleasure and
pride to be here to-day. Three years ago a young priest was sent to
one of the most miserably poor places in the Diocese. What he found
you all know. The sorrowful history of the decline of Alta was never a
secret record. Eighteen careless families left. Bigotry rampant.
Factories closed to Catholics. Church dilapidated. Only the vestry for
a dwelling place. That was three years ago, and look around you
to-day. See the church, house and school, and built out of what? That
is Father Broidy's work and Father Broidy's triumph, but we are glad
of it. No man has made such a record in our Diocese before. What have
we others done by the side of his extraordinary effort? Yet we are not
jealous. We know well the good qualities of soul and body in our young
friend, and God bless him. We are pleased to be with him, though
completely outclassed. We rejoice in the resurrection of Alta. Let me
now call upon our beloved Bishop, whose presence among us is always a
joy."

When the applause subsided the Bishop arose, and for an instant stood
again with that meaning smile just lighting his face. For that instant
he did not utter a word. When he did speak there was a quiver in his
voice that age had never planted and in spite of the jokes which had
preceded and the laughter which he had led, it sounded like a
forerunner of tears. He had never been called eloquent, this
kindly-fa