Mr. Fielding looked as if Dick's drollness did not appeal to him, but
the Bishop laughed, and put his arm around her.

"Will you give me a kiss, too, for 'Good-morning,'" he said; and then,
"That's better than the flowers. You had better run back to Aunt Basha
now, Eleanor--she'll be frightened."

Eleanor looked disappointed, "I wanted to ask you 'bout what dead
chickens gets to be, if they're good. Pups? Do you reckon it's pups?"

The theory of transmigration of souls had taken strong hold. Mr.
Fielding lost his scowl in a look of bewilderment, and the Bishop
frankly shouted out a big laugh.

"Listen, Eleanor. This afternoon I'll come for you to walk, and we'll
talk that all over. Go home now, my lamb." And Eleanor, like a pale-pink
over-sized butterfly, went.

"Do you know that child, Jim?" Mr. Fielding asked, grimly.

"Yes," answered the Bishop, with a serene pull at his cigar.

"Do you know she's the child of that good-for-nothing Fairfax Preston,
who married Eleanor Gray against her people's will and took her South
to--to--starve, practically?"

The Bishop drew a long breath, and then he turned and looked at his old
friend with a clear, wide gaze. "She's Eleanor Gray's child, too, Dick,"
he said.