seeing some feeders he had, and his horse had escaped, so
he was walking home, as it was only a couple of miles. He talked a
great deal in that two-mile trip; too much for his own good, it
developed.

For the first time since B---- climbed into our sleigh, the stranger
spoke. "Can you tell me where Mrs. Belle B---- lives?" he asked.

"Why, yes," our passenger replied. "She is a member of our little
flock. She is slightly related to me, as you perhaps noticed the name,
and I will show you to her house."

"Just how is she related to you?" the stranger asked.

"That," the man replied, "is a matter of protection. I have _given_ her
the protection of my name."

"Then she is your wife, is she not?" the stranger asked.

"You must be a stranger in this country," the man evaded. "What is your
name?"

But the stranger didn't seem to hear, and just then we came opposite
the residence of the Bishop, and the man we had picked up in the road
said, "That is my home, won't you get out and warm? My wife will be
glad to get acquainted with you ladies."

We declined, as it was only a short distance to the house of the man
Mrs. O'Shaughnessy had come to see, so he stayed in the sleigh to show
the stranger to the house of Mrs. Belle B----. I can't say much for it
as a house, and I was glad I didn't have to go in. The stranger and
B---- got out and entered the house, and we drove away.

Next morning, as we returned through the little village, it was all
excitement. Bishop B---- had been shot the night before, just as he had
left the house of Mrs. Belle B----, for what reason or by whom no one
knew; and if the Bishop knew he had not told, for he either would not
or could not talk.

They were going to start with him that day to the hospital, but they
had no hopes of his living.

When we came to Mrs. Belle's house, Mrs. O'Shaughnessy got out of the
sleigh and went into the house. I could hear her soothing voice, and I
was mighty glad the poor, forlorn woman had such a comforter.

* * * * *

I was so _very_ glad to get home. How good it all looked to me! "Poop
o' Roome" has a calf, and as we drove up to the corral Clyde was trying
to get it into the stall with the rest. It is "Poop's" first calf, and
she is very proud of it, and objected to its being put away from her,
so she bunted at Clyde, and as he dodged her, the calf ran between his
feet and he sat down suddenly in the snow. I laughed at him,