listened to the prayer of his boy. These were his words: "Dear Father in
heaven, maybe you are tired of hearing me ask you for the same thing so
many times, but there is nothing else that I want; but I _do_ want Carl.
I would not have to ask my earthly father so often, if he could possibly
do it; but he isn't able. _You are able_ and, somehow, I can't
understand why you don't. Father and mother and I all love Carl; he is
one of us; and what would the bishop do without him? And now, dear
Father, I'm going back to the house to see if he isn't better. I know
you will do it. Amen."

The two prelates sat in the resident bishop's study. "There is a sample
of my secretary's work," said Bishop Albertson, as he handed an account
book to his friend, "and it is as accurate as it is beautiful."

Bishop McLaren started when his eyes fell upon the ledger. After a
moment's hesitancy he remarked: "Never but in one instance have I seen as
fine work. That was the writing of my own dear boy; those capitals are
just like his. Ah, well."

On the afternoon of the Sabbath the two bishops strolled across the park,
and almost unconsciously found themselves in front of the farmhouse.
Little Tom sat on the front steps with a sad countenance; looking up he
recognized Bishop Albertson standing before him.

"Well, Tom, how is Carl today?" asked the bishop.

"O, Bishop, he is very bad. He talks and talks, and they don't know what
he means. He talks about his father and mother, and nobody knows where
they live. He never told anybody. But I'm praying for him, Bishop, and I
know he won't die."