ants to
be a bishop."

Langmaid shook his head.

"You're getting out of your depths, my friend. The Church isn't Wall
Street. And missionary bishops aren't chosen to make convenient
vacancies."

"I don't mean anything crude," Mr. Plimpton protested. "But a word from
the chief layman of a diocese like this, a man who never misses a General
Convention, and does everything handsomely, might count,--particularly if
they're already thinking of Hodder. The bishops would never suspect we
wanted to get rid of him."

"Well," said Langmaid, "I advise you to go easy, all along the line."

"Oh, I'll go easy enough," Mr. Plimpton assented, smiling. "Do you
remember how I pulled off old Senator Matthews when everybody swore he
was dead set on voting for an investigation in the matter of those coal
lands Mr. Parr got hold of in his state?"

"Matthews isn't Hodder, by a long shat," said Langmaid. "If you ask me
my opinion, I'll tell you frankly that if Hodder has made up his mind to
stay in St. John's a ton of dynamite and all the Eldon Parrs in the
nation can't get him out."

"Can't the vestry make him resign?" asked Mr. Plimpton, uncomfortably.

"You'd better, go home and study your canons, my friend. Nothing short
of conviction for heresy can do it, if he doesn't want to go."

"You wouldn't exactly call him a heretic," Mr. Plimpton said ruefully.

"Would you know a heretic if you saw one?" demanded Langmaid.

"No, but my wife would, and Gordon Atterbury and Constable would, and
Eldon Parr. But don't let's get nervous."

"Well, that's sensible at any rate," said Langmaid . . . .

So Mr. Plimpton had gone off optimistic, and felt even more so the next
morning after he had had his breakfast in the pleasant dining room of the
Gore Mansion, of which he was now master. As he looked out through the
open window at the sunshine in the foliage of Waverley Place, the
prospect of his being removed from that position of dignity and influence
on the vestry of St. John's, which he had achieved, with others, after so
much walking around the walls, seemed remote. And he reflected with
satisfaction upon the fact that his wife, who was his prime minister,
would be home from the East that day. Two heads were better than one,
especially if one of the two were Charlotte Gore's. And Mr. Plimpton had
often reflected upon the loss to the world, and the gain to himself, that
she was a woman.

It would not be gallant to suggest that his swans