Father Broidy turned with a little shade of disappointment on his
face to the work of preparation, and soon had the procession started
toward the church.

Shall I describe the beauty of it all?--the lights and flowers, the
swinging censers, with the glory of the chant and the wealth of mystic
symbolism which followed the passing of that solemn procession into
the sanctuary? That could best be imagined, like the feeling in the
heart of the young pastor who adored every line of the building. He
had watched the laying of each stone, and could almost count the chips
that had jumped from every chisel. There had never been so beautiful a
day to him, and never such a ceremony but one--three years ago in the
Seminary chapel. He almost forgot it in the glory of the present. Dear
me, how well Kaiser did preach! He always knew it, did Father Broidy,
that young Kaiser had it in him. He did not envy him a bit of the
congratulations. They were a part of Father Broidy's triumph, too. It
was small wonder that the Dean whispered to the Bishop on the way back
to the rectory:

"You will have to put Broidy at the top of the list now. He has surely
won his spurs to-day."

But again the shadow of the meaning smile was on the Bishop's face,
and he said nothing; so the Dean looked wise and mysterious as he
slapped the young pastor on the back and said:

"Proficiat, God bless you! You have done well, and I am proud of you,
but wait and listen." Then his voice dropped to a whisper. "I was
talking to the Bishop about you."