had been cowed into subjection. His spirit was too gentle. It had not
been mighty enough to face the organized wolf-pack of society.

I felt sad, unutterably sad. He talked ambiguously, and was so
apprehensive of what I might say that I had not the heart to catechise
him. He spoke in a far-away manner of his illness, and we talked
disjointedly about the church, the alterations in the organ, and about
petty charities; and he saw me depart with such evident relief that I
should have laughed had not my heart been so full of tears.

The poor little hero! If I had only known! He was battling like a giant,
and I did not guess it. Alone, all alone, in the midst of millions of
his fellow-men, he was fighting his fight. Torn by his horror of the
asylum and his fidelity to truth and the right, he clung steadfastly to
truth and the right; but so alone was he that he did not dare to trust
even me. He had learned his lesson well--too well.

But I was soon to know. One day the Bishop disappeared. He had told
nobody that he was going away; and as the days went by and he did not
reappear, there was much gossip to the effect that he had committed
suicide while temporarily deranged. But this idea was dispelled when it
was learned that he had sold all his possessions,--his city mansion, his
country house at Menlo Park, his paintings, and collections, and even
his cherished library. It was patent that he had made a clean and secret
sweep of everything before he disappeared.

This happened during the time when calamity had overtaken us in our own
affairs; and it was not till we were well settled in our new home that
we had opportunity really to wonder and speculate about the Bishop's
doings. And then, everything was suddenly made clear. Early one evening,
while it was yet twilight, I had run across the street and into the
butcher-shop to get some chops for Ernest's supper. We called the last
meal of the day "supper" in our new environment.

Just at the moment I came out of the butcher-shop, a man emerged from
the corner grocery that stood alongside. A queer sense familiarity made
me look again. But the man had turned and was walking rapidly away.
There was something about the slope of the shoulders and the fringe
of silver hair between coat collar and slouch hat that aroused vague
memories. Instead of crossing the street, I hurried after the man. I
quickened my pace, trying not to think the thoughts that formed unbidden
in my brain. No,