y the strain she had endured.

"Felicity," her friend broke out excitedly, "there's something here I
don't understand. You don't mean to tell me you actually allow that
man to call on you!"

Miss Wycliffe opened her eyes in astonishment. "What a goose you are,
Ella! He came to see father. I had n't time to find out what he
wanted when you nearly frightened me out of my wits."

Mrs. Parr, only partially convinced, was forced to accept the
explanation; and though her eyes adumbrated reproach, she dared not say
more. She remembered, however, the picture of Leigh and Felicity going
off together in the moonlight the previous evening, and was reassured.
In fact, she had run in to gossip about the young man, and to sound his
praises with design, but the situation she encountered at her entering
had revived her old suspicions concerning Emmet. Now she told herself
that they were merely a habit of mind, without justification. She
recalled the mayor's emotion as he bent over Lena, his averted face
when he returned for his hat, and plunged at once into an account of
the episode at the inn, which she had hitherto kept to herself. Before
long they were discussing the probable nature of the tie between Emmet
and Lena with apparently equal interest and conjecture.

About this time, the bishop, coming from Dr. Renshaw's office, met
Leigh face to face on the walk as he was returning to his room from a
recitation, and stopped to speak to him.

"Mr. Leigh," he remarked, with an observant twinkle in his eyes, "you
look as if last night's experience had been too much for you."

"We had enough strenuous excitement to keep any one awake," was the
reply. "It was too violent a break in my monastic life."

The bishop's smile widened; his innuendo had been skilfully parried.
"When you get to be my age," he said, "you will doubtless take your
politics more calmly. I never lose sleep now over the vicissitudes of
those whom the fickle crowd has raised to honour. How does the line
run? _Hunc, si mobilium turba Quiritium_--but you probably remember
your Horace better than I do."

It was one of Bishop Wycliffe's little perversities to quote Latin at
the devotees of science, and to maintain an ironical assumption of
their appreciation.

"I don't remember a word of my Horace," Leigh declared. It was not the
first time he had given the bishop the same information, and this fact
lent emphasis to his tone.

"Too bad, too bad," the o