sang Eleanor.

The Bishop exploded into a great laugh that drowned the music.

"Aunt Basha taught you that, too, didn't she?" he asked, and off he
went into another deep-toned peal.

"I thought you'd like that, 'cause it's a hymn and you're a Bishop,"
said Eleanor, approvingly. Her effort was evidently meeting with
appreciation. "You can talk to me now, I'm here." She settled herself
like a Brownie, elbows on knees, her chin in the hollows of small, lean
hands, and gazed at him unflinchingly.

"Thank you," said the Bishop, sobering at once, but laughter still in
his eyes. "Will you be kind enough to tell me then, Eleanor, who is
Dick?"

Eleanor looked astonished, "You don't know anybody much, do you?" and
there was gentle pity in her voice. "Why, Dick, he's--why, he's--why,
you see, he's my friend. I don't know his uvver names, but Mr. Fielding,
he's Dick's favver."

"Oh!" said the Bishop with comprehension. "Dick Fielding. Then Dick is
my friend, too. And people that are friends to the same people should
be friends to each other--that's geometry, Eleanor, though it's
possibly not life."

"Huh?" Eleanor stared, puzzled.