ne does not always find in the
devouter members of her sex--young and beautiful. I think I understood
you to say you are a bachelor?"

They were approaching the last turning at which it was still possible to
avoid the fatal road, and Gissing's attention was divided.

"Yes, after a fashion," he replied. "Bishop, do you know that road down
into the valley? The view is really superb--Yes, that road--Oh, no, I am
a bachelor--"

It was too late. The chauffeur, unconscious of this private crisis, was
spinning along the homeward way. With a tender emotion Gissing saw
the spires of the poplar trees, the hemlocks down beyond the pond, the
fringe of woods that concealed the house until you were quite upon it--

The car swerved suddenly and the driver only saved it by a quick and
canny manoeuvre from going down the bank. He came to a stop, and almost
from underneath the rear wheels appeared a scuffling dusty group of
youngsters who had been playing in the road. There they were--Bunks,
Groups, and Yelpers (inordinately grown!) and two of the Spaniels. Their
clothes were deplorable, their faces grimed, their legs covered with
burrs, their whole demeanour was ragamuffin and wild: yet Gissing felt
a pang of pride to see his godchildren's keen, independent bearing
contrasted with the rowdier, disreputable look of the young Spaniels.
Quickly he averted his head to escape recognition. But the urchins were
all gaping at the Bishop's shovel hat.

"Hot dog!" cried Yelpers "Some hat!"

To his horror, Gissing now saw Mrs. Spaniel, hastening in alarm
down from the house, spilling potatoes from her apron as she ran. He
hurriedly urged the driver to proceed.

"What terrible looking children," observed the Bishop, who seemed
fascinated by their stare. "Really, my good sister," he said to Mrs.
Spaniel, who was now panting by the running board; "you must keep them
off the road or someone will get hurt."

Gissing was looking for an imaginary object on the floor of the car. To
his great relief he heard the roar of the motor as they started again.
But he sat up a little too soon. A simultaneous roar of "Daddy!" burst
from the trio.

"What was that they were shouting at us?" inquired the Bishop, looking
back.

Gissing shook his head. He was too overcome to speak.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The little chapel at Dalmatian Heights sat upon a hill, among a grove
of pines, the most romantic of all trees. Life, a powerful but clumsy
dramatist, does