then his voice broke, for he was pleading, "My dear
Bishop, you will surely stay?"

Mark thought that all the misery of the world was in the priest's tones.

"I am sorry, Monsignore," and the Bishop looked it, though he spoke
very quickly; "but circumstances compel me to leave at once. No one
regrets the necessity more than I do. I should willingly stay if it
were expedient, but unfortunately it is not."

"The auto is waiting, Bishop," said the secretary, who by this time had
the prelate's coat and hat in his hand. The valises were lying packed
in the hall, as they had come from the church.

The Bishop put out his hand to Mark.

"Good-bye, Mr. Griffin," he said. "I hope we may meet at another time."

He looked at Father Murray, but the poor pastor had dropped into a
chair, and Mark noticed that his face was white and drawn. For an
instant it appeared as though the Bishop would go up to him, for he
made one step in his direction. But Father Murray took no heed.
Crushed by grief, he stared unseeing into space. The Bishop turned
abruptly and followed his secretary to the door. Mark heard them go
down the steps. He listened as the door of the car slammed; then he
heard the chugging of a motor, and they were gone. The noise grew
fainter and fainter. There was silence. Father Murray never moved.

Ann clattered in from the kitchen, calling back an order to one of her
assistants. Through the folding-doors she saw Mark.

"Where's the Father?" she asked, for the priest was hidden by part of
the wall between the two rooms. As she came up, Mark pointed to the
silent figure in the chair. Ann forgot her importance in an instant,
and rushed over to the inert priest.

"What is it, Father?" she cried. "What is it? Are ye sick?"

But Father Murray did not answer.

"Where is His Lordship?" she asked sharply, turning again to Mark.

"Gone."

"Gone!" Ann almost whispered the word, as if in awe of it. "What! he
wouldn't eat here--again!" Her face showed an agony of rage. "The
dirty--but God forgive me--he's the Bishop--I can't judge him--"

Father Murray arose, and Ann said no more.

"Hush, Ann," he cautioned, "hush." Then, turning to Mark, "Come
outside, Mark."

The two passed out onto the veranda. Father Murray dropped heavily
into his chair, with the weight of an old, feeble man. Mark felt that
he could not break the tension, but the priest relieved it himself.
His voice had a ring of pathos in