place, in Maryland, with no money at all. I've an idea Madge's mother
wasn't so sorry to die--had a hard life of it with the fascinating
Colonel." The Bishop's hand dropped from the boy's shoulder, and shut
tightly. "But that has nothing to do with my marrying Madge," Dick went
on.

"No," said the Bishop, shortly.

"And you see," said Dick, slipping to another tangent, "it's not the
money I'm keenest about, though of course I want that too, but it's
father. You believe I think more of my father than of his money, don't
you? We've been good friends all my life, and he's such a crackerjack
old fellow. I'd hate to get along without him." Dick sighed, from his
boots up--almost six feet. "Couldn't you give him a dressing down,
Bishop? Make him see reason?" He looked anxiously up the three inches
that the Bishop towered above him.

At ten o'clock the next morning Richard Fielding, owner of the great
Fielding Foundries, strolled out on his wide piazza, which, luxurious in
deep wicker chairs and Japanese rugs and light, cool furniture, looked
under scarlet and white awnings, across long boxes of geraniums and
vines, out to the sparkling Atlantic. The Bishop, a friendly light
coming into his thoughtful eyes, took his cigar from his lips and
glanced up at his friend. Mr. Fielding kicked a hassock aside, moved a
table between them, and settled himself in another chair, and with the
scratch of a match, but without a word spoken, they entered into the
companionship which had been a life-long joy to both.

"Father and the Bishop are having a song and dance without words," Dick
was pleased sometimes to say, and felt that he hit it off. The breeze