ad been in residence at Westminster for some weeks, and
was about to return to his rectory, when Phebe went down to the Abbey
one day, bent upon putting her decision into action. The bitterness of
the early spring had come again; and strong easterly gales were blowing
steadily day after day, bringing disease and death to those who were
feeble and ailing, yet not more surely than the fogs of the city had
done. It had been a long and gloomy winter, and in this second month of
the year the death rates were high. As Phebe passed through the Abbey on
her way to his home in the cloisters, she saw Canon Pascal standing
still, with his head thrown back and his eyes uplifted to the noble
arches supporting the roof. He did not notice her till her clear,
pleasant voice addressed him.

"Ah, Phebe!" he exclaimed, a swift smile transforming his grave, marked
face, "my dear, I was just asking myself how I could bear to say
farewell to all this."

He glanced round him with an expression of unutterable love and pride
and of keen regret. The Abbey had grown dearer to him than any spot on
earth; and as he paced down the long aisle he lingered as if every step
he took was full of pain.

"Bid farewell to it!" repeated Phebe; "but why?"

"For a series of whys," he answered; "first and foremost, because the
doctors tell me, and I believe it, that my dear wife's days are numbered
if she stays another year in this climate. All our days are numbered by
God, I know; but man can number them also, if he pleases, and make them
longer or shorter by his obedience or disobedience. Secondly, Phebe, our
sons have gone on before us as pioneers, and they send us piteous
accounts of the spiritual needs of the colonists and the native
populations out yonder. I preach often on the evils of over-population
and its danger to our country, and I prescribe emigration to most of the
young people I come across. Why should not I, even I, take up the
standard and cry 'Follow me'? We should leave England with sad hearts,
it is true, but for her good and for the good of unborn generations, who
shall create a second England under other skies. And last, but not
altogether least, the colonial bishopric is vacant, and has been offered
to me. If I accept it I shall save the life most precious to me, and
find another home in the midst of my children and grand-children."

"And Felix?" cried Phebe.

"What could be better for Felix than to come with us?" he asked; "there