d after we had played for a
bit, and The Seraph had demonstrated, on the hearthrug, how he could turn a
somersault, some one suggested a story.

I often thought it a pity that those, who only heard the Bishop preach,
should never know how his great talents were wasted in that role. It took
the "Arabian Nights" to bring out the deep thrill of his sonorous voice,
and his power of filling the human heart with delicious fear.

Now we perched about him listening with rapt eyes to the tale of Ali Baba.
We wished there were more women like the faithful Morgiana with her pot of
boiling oil. The Seraph, especially, revelled in the thought of those poor
devils of thieves, each simmering away in his own jar.

There fell a silence when the story was finished, and I was just casting
about in my mind for the next one I should beg, when, Angel, looking at the
clock, suddenly asked:

"Bishop, will you sing? Will you please sing us a nice old song 'stead of a
story? Sing 'John Peel,' won't you?"

"Please sing 'John Peel'!" echoed The Seraph.

The Bishop seemed loath to sing "John Peel." It was years since he had sung
it, he said; he had almost forgotten the words. But when Margery joined her
persuasions to ours, he consented to sing just one verse and the chorus. So
he sang (but rather softly);

"D'ye ken John Peel, with his coat so grey?
D'ye ken John Peel, at the break of day?
D'ye ken John Peel, when he's far, far away,
With his hounds and his horn in the morning?"

Before he had time to begin the chorus, it was taken up by a mellow
baritone voice in the hall. It began softly too, but when it reached the
"View halloo," it rang boldly.

"For the sound of his horn brought me from my bed,
And the cry of his hounds, which he oft-times led,
Peel's 'View halloo!' would awaken the dead,
Or the fox from his lair in the morning."

The Bishop never moved a muscle till the last note died away, then he shook
us off him, took three strides to the door, and swept the curtains back.
Harry stood in the doorway with a rather shame-faced smile.

"Good God!" exclaimed the Bishop. "Harry!" Then he put his arms around him
and kissed him.

I threw a triumphant glance at Margery. It hadn't hurt the Bishop at all to
forgive Harry.

"It was all the doing of these kids," Harry was saying, "if they hadn't
cleared the way, I'd never have dared. John engineered everything. As a
diplomat he's a pocket marvel."

He and Ma