adventure dancing in her eyes. The Bishop took out his watch and looked
at it, as Eleanor, her soul on the grasshopper, opened her fist and
flung its squirming contents, with delicious horror, yards away. Half an
hour yet to service and only five minutes' walk to the little church of
Saint Peter's-by-the-Sea.

"Will you sit down and talk to me, Eleanor Gray?" he asked, gravely.

"Oh, yes, if there's time," assented Eleanor, "but you mustn't be late
to church, Bishop. That's naughty."

"I think there's time. How do you know who I am, Eleanor?"

"Dick told me."

The Bishop had walked away from the throbbing sunshine into the
green-black shadows of a tree, and seated himself with a boyish
lightness in piquant contrast with his gray-haired dignity--a lightness
that meant athletic years. Eleanor bent down the branch of a great bush
that faced him and sat on it as if a bird had poised there. She smiled
as their eyes met, and began to hum an air softly. The startled Bishop
slowly made out a likeness to the words of the old hymn that begins

Am I a soldier of the Cross,
A follower of the Lamb?

Sweetly and reverently she sang it, over and over, with a difference.

Am I shoulder of a hoss,
A quarter of a lamb?