"Is that your little bit of name too?" the Bishop asked, "Are you a
Preston?"

"Why, of course." The child opened her gray eyes wide. "Don't you know
my name? I'm Eleanor. Eleanor Gray Preston."

For a moment again the locust had it all to himself. High and insistent,
his steady note sounded across the hot, still world. The Bishop looked
down at the gray eyes gazing upward wonderingly, and through a mist of
years other eyes smiled at him. Eleanor Gray--the world is small, the
life of it persistent; generations repeat themselves, and each is young
but once. He put his hand under the child's chin and turned up the baby
face.

"Ah!" said he--if that may stand for the sound that stood for the
Bishop's reverie. "Ah! Whom were you named for, Eleanor Gray?"

"For my own muvver." Eleanor wriggled her chin from the big hand and
looked at him with dignity. She did not like to be touched by
strangers. Again the voices stopped and the locust sang two notes and
stopped also, as if suddenly awed.

"Your mother," repeated the Bishop, "your mother! I hope you are worthy
of the name."

"Yes, I am," said Eleanor heartily. "Bug's on your shoulder, Bishop! For
de Lawd's sake!" she squealed excitedly, in delicious high notes that a
prima donna might envy; then caught the fat grasshopper from the black
clerical coat, and stood holding it, lips compressed and the joy of