while Cecily, doing her hair, considered me gravely. 'I wish you
would tell me why you laugh, mamma,' quoth she; 'you laugh so
often.'

We had not to wait after all for my good offices of the next
morning. Cecily came down at ten o'clock that night quite happy and
excited; she had been talking to a bishop, such a dear bishop. The
bishop had been showing her his collection of photographs, and she
had promised to play the harmonium for him at the eleven-o'clock
service in the morning. 'Bless me!' said I, 'is it Sunday?' It
seemed she had got on very well indeed with the bishop, who knew the
married sister, at Tunbridge, of her very greatest friend. Cecily
herself did not know the married sister, but that didn't matter--it
was a link. The bishop was charming. 'Well, my love,' said I--I
was teaching myself to use these forms of address for fear she would
feel an unkind lack of them, but it was difficult--'I am glad that
somebody from my part of the world has impressed you favourably at
last. I wish we had more bishops.'

'Oh, but my bishop doesn't belong to your part of the world,'
responded my daughter sleepily. 'He is travelling for his health.'

It was the most unexpected and delightful thing to be packed into
one's chair next morning by Dacres Tottenham. As I emerged from the
music saloon after breakfast--Cecily had stayed below to look over
her hymns and consider with her bishop the possibility of an anthem-
-Dacres's face was the first I saw; it simply illuminated, for me,
that portion of the deck. I noticed with pleasure the quick toss of
the cigar overboard as he recognized and bore down upon me. We were
immense friends; John liked him too. He was one of those people who