had done something in the world. Once she told Talboys that he was a
"capital observer." She made the remark as a compliment, but it stung
him to the quick; he realized that she thought of him only as an
observer. When a trifling but obstinate throat complaint brought the
Bishop to Aiken, Talboys felt a great longing to win his approval.
Surely, Louise, who judged all men by her father's standard, must be
influenced by her father's favor. Unhappily, the Bishop had never, as
the phrase goes, "taken" to Talboys, nor did he seem more inclined to
take to him now, and Martin was too modest to persist in unwelcome
attentions. But he greeted the present opportunity all the more
warmly.

In the morning, the three--the Bishop, Louise, and Talboys--drove to
the cracker's cabin. The day was perfect, one of those Aiken days, so
fair that even invalids find no complaint in their wearisome list to
bring against them and can but sigh over each, "Ah, if all days might
only be like this!" Hardly a cloud marred the tender blue of the sky.
The air was divinely soft. They drove through the woods, and the
ground was carpeted with dry pine spikes, whereon their horses' hoofs
made a dull and pleasant sound. A multitude of violets grew in the
little spaces among the trees. Yellow jasmine flecked the roadside
shade with gold, its fragrance blending with the keen odors of the
pine. If they looked up, they saw the pine tops etched upon the sky,
and a solemn, ceaseless murmur beat its organ-like waves through all
their talk. The Bishop had put on his clerical robes; he sat on the
back seat of the carriage, a superb figure, with his noble head and
imposing mien. As they rolled along, the Bishop talked. He spoke of
death. He spoke not as a priest, but as a man, dwelling on the mystery
of death, bringing up those speculations with which from the beginning
men have striven to light the eternal darkness.

"I suppose it is the mystery," said the Bishop, "which causes the
unreality of death, its perpetual surprise. Now, behind my certainty
of this poor woman's death I have a lurking expectation of seeing her
standing in the doorway, her old clay pipe in her mouth. I can't help
it."

"Though she was a 'bawn lady,' she smoked, did she?" said Talboys.
Then he felt the remark to be hopelessly below the level of the
conversation, and made haste to add, "I suppose it was a consolation
to her; she had a pretty hard life, I fancy."

"Awfully," said Louise.