which
seemed to expect the drawing near of evil days never left them again,
and daily his face grew thinner and whiter, his manner more restless and
ill at ease. He seemed as uncomfortable as was Damocles under the
hair-suspended sword.

Other people besides the chaplain noticed the change, but, unlike
Cargrim, they did not ascribe it to a consciousness of guilt, but to ill
health. Mrs Pendle, who was extremely fond of her husband, and was well
informed with regard to the newest treatment and the latest fashionable
medicine, insisted that the bishop suffered from nerves brought on by
overwork, and plaintively suggested that he should take the cure for
them at some German Bad. But the bishop, sturdy old Briton that he was,
insisted that so long as he could keep on his feet there was no
necessity for his women-folk to make a fuss over him, and declared that
it was merely the change in the weather which caused him--as he phrased
it--to feel a trifle out of sorts.

'It is hot one day and cold the next, my dear,' he said in answer to his
wife remonstrances, 'as if the clerk of the weather didn't know his own
mind. How can you expect the liver of a fat, lazy old man like me not to
respond to these sudden changes of temperature?'

'Fat, bishop!' cried Mrs Pendle, in vexed tones. 'You are not fat; you
have a fine figure for a man of your age. And as to lazy, there is no
one in the Church who works harder than you do. No one can deny that.'

'You flatter me, my love!'

'You under-rate yourself, my dear. But if it _is_ liver, why not try
Woodhall Spa? I believe the treatment there is very drastic and
beneficial. Why not go there, bishop? I'm sure a holiday would do you no
harm.'

'I haven't time for a holiday, Amy. My liver must get well as best it
can while I go about my daily duties--that is if it _is_ my liver.'

'I don't believe it is,' remarked Mrs Pendle; 'it is nerves, my dear,
nothing else. You hardly eat anything, you start at your own shadow, and
at times you are too irritable for words. Go to Droitwich for those
unruly nerves of yours, and try brine baths.'

'I rather think you should go to Nauheim for that weak heart of yours,
my love,' replied Dr Pendle, arranging his wife's pillows; 'in fact, I
want you and Lucy to go there next month.'

'Indeed, bishop, I shall do no such thing! You are not fit to look after
yourself.'

'Then Graham shall look after me.'

'Dr Graham!' echoed Mrs Pendle, with contempt.